poems from edge of the earth

dusk at the field at the edge of the earth, november 2007

the edge of the earth, nov.2007

old wheat stalks... looking a bit like underwater corals or fronds of some sort... nov.2007

high-bush cranberries in the forest by the field at the edge of the earth, nov.2007

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poems in various states of poem-finishedness, out to get some air... i've also written about the edge of the earth here, back in january 2006 when i first discovered it... (see very bottom of page)


i)

down beyond the last of the houses
where suburbia bleeds out
its last paved streets we found
the field at the edge of the earth.

over the rise, the trampled wheatstalks
waving again pure, treeless sky,
there is no curving horizon to remind you
of the earth as an oblate spheroid,

no geographers to remind you
that there is no abyss, just another dip,
remnant of an ancient riverbank
swimming in yellow skeletons of rye.

we just found the field that
snowless december, funeral-weary &
wandering in the woods not knowing
whether we escaped ghosts or

sought them. tried to feel a quiet
hand in the ice-fog settling, dancing
on the earth that held them, held
us in its dizzying spherical waves,

snapped pictures of our fuzzy forms
whirling in the frost, running up over
the illusory slope until we felt them,
there, on the periphery of our breathing,

in the suggestions of our flurried movements,
the bend of the tired grass spines,
creeping up on the hill’s rim
our sparse tears, the fingers of the wind --


ii)

at the edge of the earth
lie the bleached skeletons of wheat,
still spines curving under sleep-weight,
blue smoke of winter;

deep underneath,
my ancestors dream seeds:

from those tightly curled embryos
they arise and fly as skeins of geese
unravelling, a living memory
in that ragged purl of a v,

a migrant blanket
moving over cloud-gates &
continents, pulling us over
the edge of the earth –


iii)

at the edge of the earth
i lie fallow at dusk
waking & wondering
what holds me here?

born here i was made
of this dust, mixed with
star & pulsar, consumed it
& consuming, water & soil:

a river breathing ice
on its edges, my baba
with handfuls of that dark
matter, nodding at the mass

in her hands as we
planted, & i still sow her
carrots & poppies, wondering
what holds me here

when those i love are scattering,
slowly shifting in their orbits,
in distance, til our fingers can’t touch,
in words, til soon we’re unintelligible –

when i rise there are deer
dashing over the crooked fences,
whiteflag tails trace a camera-flash
of their paths over the night fields,

never looking back as they
run leaping, spreading themselves
wide over
the edge of the earth –