Bob Hicok – Epithalamium

A bee in the field. The house on the mountain

reveals itself to have been there through summer.

It’s not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass

in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke

above the chimney as it shreds what it’s learned

of fire. The horse has moved, it’s not a horse

but a woman doing the stations of the cross

with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house

as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman

eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself

like fire. The woman has stopped, it’s not a woman

but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals.

The everything has moved, it’s not everything

but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage

of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.

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