I. Spring
We
would not be young.
We would
like to know,
sap
cloying
to
our clothes.
Sway
in wind, groan
under
breath.
Over
our
heads,
eight
umber
tablets, angels.
Angels’
tablets.
I
carved into the smooth
side
his name as well
as
mine.
II.
Summer
Turn
back,
come
in.
Welcome
into skin.
Suit
us
to
yourself,
Move
us.
We
are
kicking,
flecked
with
blood,
peeled
wet,
clean
and yet
not
sanitized.
Press
us with
your
eyes.
III.
Autumn
In
fires and floods
our
past is lost.
Beneath
we
cannot see.
We
did not seal
or
copy,
now
they wrinkle,
flake,
recede.
God
forbid
we
forget
these
lost
and
costly things,
bright
as pain,
striated
wine
dripping
down
a
tree.
IV.
Winter
We
have come
into
ourselves
more
beautifully
than
bent head
under
wing.
Illumined,
half erased.
Past
the bleached
bones
already.
You
wrap us in
transparent
paper,
ashes.
Smoke
of
incense lingers.
Composed,
rescinded,
stroke
the loosened
skin
along our fingers.
http://bruceherman.com/fourqu4rtets.php
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