Harvest
for Elizabeth Robinson
These are not the books
In the night air where I vanish
Black as clouds
No one mistook
Me for books in the wind I torch
& Want to go there, where I fear
& A mirror holds the light
Toward a mise-en-scène which shatters
All our ruined vices
’Til we become freakishly visible
Where are the power couples when you
Need them (when we scoff
Heightened in rustic adornment
Graced by the way stations where old
Men sulk
& Pivot? It’s a wonderful replica
Of the days you’d given
To fill our palms with blight— & we
Were grateful, grateful.— We smashed
Wine glasses in dim merriment, then
Scattered toward the temple
Where real nourishment was rumored
To come soon. Now the harvest is dust— & all
We know of exaltation
Is clutched in letters zealots fear. Let curtains
Rise, to trumpets’ clatter; & if
We don’t go, how can we ever
Come back to this driving
Plain & its dim mercy—
Greater than anyone’s
Memory tougher than
Heaven fears?
—Mark DuCharme
published in New American Writing 37 (2019)
