James Burbank

Three Takes and a Riposte

Bone I turned over and over in my

hand  complexity of it 

whiteness starkness angles many

ridges and summits that have

never been explored except

for the flicker who assaults

at every opportunity why are

we blind to that

poverty of this moment with

skull in hand picking at dry

corners why? Look there into

my own death turning that

over and over in my hands

                    .

Up on that ridge nothing

can be said that has not been

said before into clear

blue air all those trees

speaking to one another

throughout time weigh

on the heart and bring

tears to the eyes old eyes those

blind eyes those that see beyond

nothing  stars or clarity

even beyond

in wind in air in

           .

Sometimes a

blessing lies hidden

and other times open

to air and the

incidence of touch

how remains the edge without choice

sharpness where remains

time and the

redtail hawk over

deep canyon small

creature invisible

below beneath leaf

             .

Some years back my

favorite way up the ridge

back of old turtle mountain

an older tree still against a

bear-scratched stump

upward seeming

forever upward

and out over the river

plain home again I

cry out nowhere

to hear no one

Sometimes the dead

live more than the living

and the living have

no appreciation for

what it takes to

sit still inside nothing

James Clarke Burbank

The resurrected duende press presents The OxBow Poems, Slow Walks on the Rio Grande, poems and photographs and writings by Mr. Burbank. See his website.