The Underworld in Springtime

Rebecca Givens Rolland

After so much exactness – after

one angle of wind that

shivers, lashes metal filings till

                        underlying rust flattens

out – after it no longer contains

any motion, wheels

of tendons threaten to unwind, dissolve

                        in dawdling ash as ship-

wrecks settle, elsewhere, on the inattentive

                        floor, biding time for

what flickered under salt and would still

                        clutter, clarify the open

views, fluttering of flags, butter in a pan

                        that singes, will not be

calmed, that finds the house in a ransomed

                        era, does not demand one

ounce of its release – dampens no fluid,

                        no lucent openings,

wrestles matter through surface air – ten

                        darts, a hundred, letting

arrows refract sky’s commitment, sibilant

                        burden on which just

the sharpest points agree, honing in returns,

                        definitive, to those who

earlier had no aching eyes, no weeping over

                        the season that craves no

messages, that blows its silence through one

                        sheer word – and then

refuses to say –