Charles Wright

Milton paints purple trees. Avery.
                                                     And Wolf Kahn too.
I've liked their landscapes,
Nightdreams  and daymares,
                                                pastures and woods that burn our eyes.
Otherwise, why would we look?
Otherwise, why would we stretch our hands out and gather them
     in?

My brother slides through the blue zones in enormous planes.
My sister's cartilage, ash and bone.
My parents rock in their blackened boats
                                                          back and forth, back and forth.
Above the ornamental cherries, the sky is  box and a glaze.
Well, yes, a box and a glaze.

Pulled from despair like a bad tooth,
I see my roots, tiny roots,
                                        glisten like good luck in the sun.
What we refuse defines us,
                                            a little of this, a little of that.
The light stays fool's gold for a long time.
The light stays fool's gold for a long time.