Skip to main content
Uncategorized

The Man from St. George

By September 17, 2013No Comments

by Truedson J.S.

An antique dining chair
props him up or at least!
what’s left of him
& he sits inverse
with one hand on the spine
& an elbow on the shoulder
& he wears a heavy canvas jacket
that he’s pulled over his head
–lots of pockets & zippers
that hold a thousand mystere–
& the temperature is unbearable
as I can only see my reflection!
in his big focals
but not in the eyes
that peer from within
his canvas cave
& he tells me a story
or more a narrative
about circles & life & age
& I listen carefully
because I know he can
tell that I can tell that!
he is important
because he comes
from another August
& a different America
but the same Red Hills
& Black Rock
& Snow Canyon
& he tells me that
life is one big annulus
& that every voyage
every wandering
every pilgrimage
every rite
is really but a return!
to the sensuous hills
that curve around us
blushing bright red at the
touch of that river Virgin
& I am still a virgin
he whispers!
with the senselessness!
of old age & the honesty!
of someone who is still
returning