The Hunters, The Woods
       

A letter does not arrive.
Figures cross the background on
unseen paths. A letter goes
on not arriving. A weaving
is taking place between what

the past cast forward and
what can be seen now.
Desire can have clearings like
the white space that follows
a letter leaving the hand.

There can be birds or
a fog that touches everything
even the bellies of leaves.
The letter goes on falling
away it draws to itself

a note made from rubbed
cords in the landscape which
is desire's own lain scene
and also itself. With visitors.
There may be a moon

only watches. See how I
found a way. There may
be a gesture can be
made between what does not
arrive and what is already

waiting. A field bare and
ringing in the hand. I
reach to take sharp air
and where it leads to.
A note goes on arriving.

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Copyright © 2015 Caroline Knapp All rights reserved
from jubilat
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission