The Moment When Your Name is Pronounced
This high up, the face
eroding; the red cedar slopes
over. An accident chooses a stranger.
Each rain unplugs roots
which thin out like a hand.
Above the river, heat
lightning flicks silently
and the sound holds, coiled in air.
Some nights you are here
dangling a Valpolicella bottle,
staring down at the flat water
that slides by with its mouth full of starlight.
It is always quiet
when we finish the wine.
While you were a living man
how many pictures were done
of you. Serious as an angel,
lacing up your boots. Ice
blows into my fields.
Copyright Credit: Forrest Gander, “The Moment When Your Name Is Pronounced” from Rush to the Lake (Cambridge, AliceJames Books, 1988). Reprinted with the permission of the author.
Source: Rush to the Lake (1988)