There Is Joy Here

photograph by Lara Crowder Dye


there is joy here


fragmented from rags the dream

lines ragged written & worn
& where are they located
the remains of a light
swallowed by his
t’urn a fr’aming

(how would you
caress your
burning
soul)

laughing a woman
authors what
he cannot
name

(there is joy here)

she leans into him
her hands on his right
shoulder her blue wool
coat dappled with snow
laughing mouth wide & open

“happy as a dove” she says
a dove in a linden tree
winter like an old
cat grown weary

it is always whole
to be in love
the ribbons
unlacing;

& how beautiful that it cannot be recalled:
tangled

* * *

driving off
(how does it
happen again)

aching in the turn
a ghost of what
wants leaving

breathing in
a blue smoke
darkly carved

a dead fire
wants passage
to a field of snow

her mouth cannot
it is too much to rise
the red of its collapse

the last he gave to the old men
their canes like scriptures
of forgiving snakes

what happens to
swallowed
light

he stops
as if to
quit

leaves
skittering
in the traffic

& mountains groan
remembering horizons
sewn into her closing hands;

angels mending the gates of the moon

* * *

what unwalled
the mother
weeping
glass

the blisters
bearding
beauty

she wanted
him inside
emptied
in love

or shamed in angels
speaking Russian
& old women

seal her room
with moans
& darker
blood

he cannot
unwrap
a fire

& her hand
falls into
a blue
light

his body
a thin smoke
leaving her mouth


Richard Lance Williams

Posted over on More Poetry