Today's poem is by D. Nurske

Pas De L'Incise

We came down from the little mountains
once every few weeks
for a sack of rice, or lard, or candles,
or just to talk for a moment
with the old man in the paperbag hat
who lounged at the door with a fly whisk.

We would complain about each other:
he's bitter, he wants so much,
what she has she doesn't want
and we'd brag of the harshness
of that plateau, the splendor
of Andromeda, the absolute silence.

Sometimes we boasted
of the waterfall, the whirlwinds,
the downy soft-pinioned owl
drifting in daylight
with a hole in his voice,
the immense cliffs —

and that is all anyone knows
of those years of marriage,
labor, voluntary poverty:
those mountains were perfectly flat
and exist only as a little rip
where the map was folded once too often.

Copyright © 2005 D. Nurske All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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