D A V I D E T R A M E
Your old country home, the huge moths bumping
against the lamp on the lintel with its yellow light,
the straw mattress where you slept as a child,
and that itch in your nose before going to bed,
your sneezing in the corners, then your waking up
in the dead of night, breathing with the mouth,
fumbling among silent moths for a handkerchief
stepping barefoot on the screeching floorboards.
In the day your clogged nose as you played
and panted in the field by the hedge’s dusty gold
under the widespread silvery eye of the mountain
by the wrinkled cornstalks among shafts of dusty sunlight,
the rustling, stinging, slightly burnished bounty.
It was a god or a ghost that wished to make you burst,
to shoot maybe into the eagle’s staring hush,
as it is now here while you are on the verge of a sneeze,
eyes watering, closing, sunrise sky flashing,
stubble like a scattered debris of arrows
and rows of vines with red leaves in the haze,
scythes of God’s relentless gaze.