2 September 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 3

Tulku

by NORMAN DUBIE

          – the letter of discovery

It is both the depth of field and snow

that have shortened the telephone poles

by half or more.

The yellow flower boxes below the windows

are desultory with graying pea strings.

The many storied intersection

of river, limestone tunnel and rail bed

stand back from the birches

and collapsing roadhouse.

(Out of rime,

here, is his birthplace—   this next time—

three miles from the Pennsylvania state line.)

He's the talented forward of a red blouse

and broken arc of gravity's javelin

rattling loudly inside the empty high school bleachers.

Hot chocolate, cheese sandwiches roasted

in seconds on a coal pan

inside the open furnace.

The girl Eileen for a mother,

she, looking into the fire-horse year

for a father, sees her brother

that June leaping sun share,

slyph share, into the cold emerald waters

of the abandoned quarry. William

with goldenrod for certificates

of birth and marriage.

William and the sudden rain

making a plentitude,

nipples rising across the surface of water.

A pale hip rolls up from the depth,

the floating hairline touches the quarry's lip.