The Poetry of Taylor Graham
Primitive
Tonight the full moon is a mask
of light, by daylight
the bone of the mask. The sun
comes then to cook us
through our glasses, brown us
in our skin which is a mask
forever empty behind its eyes.
The official history-of-art
admits no masks: Art is all
about eyes. The mask is only
fabric of flesh torn to make
room for the eyes
which are wired to heaven
by a long thin cord.
The reaper sun spreads
ripe seed-heads standing
to aim for the stalk.
What root survives
under soil
in the dark holes
of the mask
which are the eyes?
See all the cars lined up along
the curb,
discharging, now, his family and
friends.
Still air whispers, Do not
disturb
the boy who swam his way to
birth
just three years from this
dead-end
date, to find his own way back
to earth.
Chin in hand, newspaper open,
she sits contemplating distant
daily hunger, while not so far
away
a girl runs through the market-
place, blood oranges
of the Holy Land.