Let
Me Try
Christopher
Voigt
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To remember the upward drift
Of the land this dream has put me out
of,
And in trying to, recapture what
Went on there, recreate the land within.
It will only be an attempt
Among many fruitless attempts,
From containing the river's water
In a glass that couldn't hold it
To plotting the sunset's streaking
Gros-bise with a point of graphite.
The palm of my hand, before my mind's
Disaster, becomes the round of
A dance that follows dinner, when
Conversation, for lack of betters,
Has dwindled, and the pulse of boredom
Slowly fills the space—until the
torrent
Of a hillside comes to mind, and
The view that only minutes ago—it
seemed—
Filled a tranquil pool of thought,
Becomes wineglass breaking, shivering
Wave of green emerging, the sun's last
Gold ray blasting the pad, leaf by
Leaf, and, finally, the "I"
that in
The last chair sits, weeps sentiment
In a borrowed napkin. For the
Point of it's been lost in the deluge,
the
Land of hills has lost itself in
Me, as in the waking from the loss of
it.
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