Images/Words/ Images

. . .
At night, in the fish-light of the moon, the dead wear our white
To stay warm, and litter the fields,
We pick them up in the mornings, dewy pieces of paper and
scraps of cloth.
Like us, they refract themselves.  Like us,
They keep on saying the same thing, trying to get it right.
Like us, the water unsettles their names.
Sometimes they lie like leaves in their little arks, and curl up at the
 . . .
The dead are constant in
the white lips of the sea.
Over and over, through clenched teeth, they tell
Their story, the story each knows by heart:
Remember me, speak my name.
When the moon tugs at my sleeve,
When the body of water is raised and becomes the body of light,
Remember me, speak my  name.
 . . .
The voices rising around us like mist
And dew, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right . . .

from Homage to Paul Cézanne by Charles Wright






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