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Matthews

 
William Matthews
1942-1997

 
"Directions"

 

The new road runs into
the old road, turn
west when your ankles hurt.
The wind will be thinning itself
in the grass. Listen, those thuds
are bees drunk with plunder
falling from the minarets of flowers
like ripe prayer.
Follow the path
their bodies make. Faster.
The dirt in that wineglass
came from Chateau d'Yquem.
You're getting closer.
That pile of clothes
is where some women
enter the river. Hurry up.
The last hill is called
Sleep's Kneecap, nobody
remembers why.
This is where the wind turns
back. From the ridge
you can see the light.
It's more like a bright soot
really, or the dust
a moth's wing leaves
on the thumb and forefinger.
This is where I turn
back you go the rest of the way
by eating the light until
there is none and the next one
eats along the glow
of your extinguished hunger and turns
to the living.

© William Matthews
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