Monday, May 07, 2012

The Archaeologist


author's note:

It is a glass of water
ever just poured for me, a memory
kept silent come to speak.
             -- Robert Duncan
 

THE ARCHAEOLOGIST

When he said her ancient name
he felt as if he spoke
of every woman ever born--

thus, he could endure the work--the dust,
the tedious years of shifting, the fights,
the sweating madness
of that desert country...

however, her elusiveness, so deeply felt
could, at times, overwhelm him, leave him
weeping...

then, in desperation, he'd catch himself up
by saying the other name--the ordinary one
of a woman lifting her cupped hands
to the sun

that incantation would return him
to the beauty of a world
in which chipped cups
take the place of silver goblets--

that name, so strong
served enough blue water
for him to endure
the dust of his blindness--
enough for him to bear
his maddening doubt.


© 2012, Michael R. Patton dreaming steps

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