Crumbs

David Trame

The way of dusk, clusters of moths on the stable doorstep,
swallows in loops.
With the beehives of their pupils
the horses scrutinize seas,
munch them away with the hay;
your gaze runs along the roofs,
in the fields over the barley spikes,
in crumbs of air, in swishing miles;
think of those with a steady stare, who went behind:
Van Gogh, in a flowers’ blaze,
Don Juan Matus, a quivering between the boulders,
Buddha, crosslegged in the banyan’s root-maze
with eyes sailing, irises quenched.

Sleep should come in moments like now,
quietly longing for the taste
of a darkening green branch,
loops loosening in the wake of the swallows,
the light’s crumbs brushing the evening moss.

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Plane Trees

David Trame

Not evergreen but everbrushing
the many glances from the train window
with a volley of branches;
and leaves, closer than ever once summer gone,
the bees’ hum buried under the stubble,
the glistening roar of the distances
captured in a haze of ditches,
the October lit rust that grips you
along the grapes and you stuck
on the dark blood of their gaze.
Brushing leaves, the strength of embers
breathing in a shelter of whispers,
reminding you of your birth in the sunset
before falling in a patchwork
and offering a rich debris to winter.

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