For Thomas In the beginning there was grief, a garden in the center of a city lit in rose and green, a quickening of the air across the wing of a plane upon the tip of the Labrador Sea there was gleaming there, a torque not finished or forestalling there was the promise of Paris's perpetual pomme pressed in gold, there was only the hole in the heel of a sock, the steam of a since in a fore-flung damp hotel there was nothing baked or boiled there was a stiffness, a whiteness, a heaviness of limbs and chips and silvered peas, there was this about it—a dipping of the sun, a singular spoon, a grid of hymns buried under the finances of a pickled cork, there was finally that sense of it, pharmacies or chemists or high streets or the shape of an ear of a baby asleep, heavily there was that, let me explain it again let it be turned by the heave of a hundred craven wivers of verse, let the pendulous balls of finest quality lead render it into what I think it is. Let me go back to that garden in the center of that city to know I who I loved.
Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Jarnot. Used with permission of the author.
Date Published: 2011-02-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/after-catullus