QUIET SPACE
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
What used to be third floor before earthquake:
skiff of concrete dust like morning snow. It's
quiet except street-noise through shattered
window—hammers, hacksaws cutting rebar,
backhoe, sirens. Someone yells ¡Silencio! and
everyone stops to listen. Sound of life? Inside
this room, my dog sniffs edges. Masticated
building tossed with chair-legs, a shoe, blue
floral print. My dog has had enough of death;
she crawls under a chunk of ceiling, or is it wall?
comes back with that look in her eye. Has she
found an inch of silence, space small as before
breath for a prayer to seep between gray slabs—
someone alive? From the parapet, a pigeon
extends its wings and flies.
_____________________
MAIN STREET, 7:30 A.M.
—Taylor Graham
The sidewalk's empty in a one-street town.
My dog on leash leads out, she pulls me east
past bakery with its after-whiff of yeast.
The sidewalk's empty in a one-street town,
my dog on leash leads out. She pulls me east
past gallery and grill, an antique store,
a crack in pavement—one quick sniff before
my dog leads out again, and pulls me east.
Past gallery and grill, an antique store
whose musty scent of by-gone days slips through
the locked-tight door. She tugs; here's something new
past gallery and grill; the antique store
whose musty scent of by-gone days slips through
to sidewalk (empty). In a one-street town
a dog's nose reads the news that's coming down.
Whose musty scent of by-gone days slips through?
The sidewalk's empty in a one-street town.
My dog on leash leads out, she pulls me east
past bakery with its after-whiff of yeast.
The sidewalk's empty in a one-street town.
____________________
ASKING THE ORACLE
—Taylor Graham
The night was shattered by dreams.
Two long-dead men lost and buried in their flight.
Overhead, the great bird screams.
Pits under snow, earth packed tight.
We woke to horses burning, day's savage light.
For such dreams, what must we pay?
Pebbles, driftwood, rafts of skin, some shards of bone.
A quarter-moon per Monday;
four makes a ghostly moonstone,
a silver coin. This moon keeps it for its own.
We keep nothing. Not one name—
faces of loved ones—they will all rearrange
and recombine in the same
register of memory; strange
yet shining, the old hands and glances; small change.
___________________
DANCE OF RIVER AND ROCK
—Taylor Graham
A dance for two. My dog leads, and I follow.
I parked my car at the vista, and now
we move to the music of river far below,
past the rockwall meant to save tourists from
the view. Downslope of dance-floor
littered slick with deadfall leaves, my dog
picks our step. Out of sight, booming,
the great river. That lilt of head, the graceful
turns—a dancer is my dog. To the edge
of gorge. Rock falls away, inches from my
boot. Above us, at the vista on a pleasant day,
people stand at the wall of the world,
gazing at blue heavens, grayrock castles
on every side, as wind joins the river's song,
an invitation to the dance. Without quite
choosing, someone took the river for partner.
That dance is done. I lead my dog back
to the rockwall barricade, the vista, our car.