Vignettes of Infinity
By Michael Turle
Can’t we just put on the clothes
we wore dark hours before
and pretend that life is one long day
that unfolds without creases—
Can we pretend that love is meant
as anything other than art?
as some appeal to sacredness outside of
our vain devotions?
Maybe that dream is dangerous,
maybe you have been betrayed.
The phantom miles we go between
to usher our images towards existence
seem to stretch out with each passing poem—
stretch like the shadows of summer
the landscape under their weight.
If we were falcons perning in a gyre
what poetry would be our prey?
and should the falconer call us to roost
would you heed
or abstain to hear?
Would you feign distance or deafness, pretend
to have found some frail freedom up there?
Or simply exalt in its illusion?
flying on fickle and mortal wings,
so soon to descend upon mortal ground,
for a single shining instant at the zenith of your arc,
when your wings can wrest the cloudy waves from under you no more,
and the sun is unambiguous in all its love and splendor—
you are weightless—
a puppet hung from heaven, so immaculate
and immeasurable that the faults of mortal memory
may not mutilate its strings;
your weight shifts—
the light breaks—
your ceremony of innocence is drowned
on errant dreams and dying sunlight
as Earth recalls your ponderous form beneath her unyielding embrace;
if we were falcons falling to the earth
would you ever forgive the gravity?