Poem of the Week

In the east country where I must have lived once,

or how else remember it, the words came falling to

every side of me, words from a life that I’d thought,

if not easy, might at least be possible, though that

was then: little crown and little burst of arrows

and ritual, loyalty, they are not the same . . . I lay

rippling like a field shot through with amethyst

and reason. Then it seemed I myself was the field,

the words fell toward, then into me, each one no

sooner getting understood, than it touched the ground.