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Elegy for Matt || Sean Patrick Hill


Elegy for Matt

 

 

 

The body is

conduit

is therefore

conducive

 

conductive

 

channels tides

into

the sluice and slough

organs

of desire

 

of that which wishes to be

carried on

passed on

not remarked upon

 

it glides

gilds

guides the hand into each

other’s hands

 

we are passed this way

and live

this way onward

 

The body

comes down from hills

follows

the creek which

carries its own

wind

 

and road

 

it is always on roads

we find ourselves

 

always on roads we find

ourselves dying

 

Look how many dead

each day

lie in our roads

 

I say in not on

as road is our river now

caught

like leaves

 

in the undercarriage

 

think

you may have crossed

the bend

or glanced at the shoulder

where

you will die

 

or did

 

as Matt did passing

a place

made emblem

made

holy

made whole now we shall go

there

and keeping close

this knowledge

 

might lay our flowers

there

at the foot of the hill

might bow there

as this is the place where one is thrown

from the body

or a star

gone

 

supernova

 

exploded outwards

we can see this

being

 

sensitive

 

hearing the long hiss

rain

under tires

 

listen close

leaves under axle

 

Here

incredibly you followed

the path

of a glacier

 

pulling back the land as one

tugs

a blanket to the chin

before

night truly sets

its foot

 

at your throat

 

You might hear

as I have

camped in the evening beside a river

voices

of fishermen

in the willows

 

and gone to find them found

nothing

 

there is only river now

 

you find

it was always river talking

to itself

 

I found in my mind

a gravity

uninterrupted

 

a grief

moving forward to the glaciated

turn

creek murmur

highway sigh

 

and imagined flowers there

already

imagined I would go

home

to where Matt was born

and died

which is to say born

in me

now that he has awakened

 

and opened

my eyes

 

which must be why we leave

flowers

among the alluvium

 

daisies

day’s eyes

 

bits of broken

glass

along the shoulder

 

shining

 

 

Sean Patrick Hill is the author of the chapbook Hibernaculum (Slash Pine Press, 2013), as well as two full full-length books of poems, Interstitial and The Imagined Field. He is the editor and curator of Green Fuse Press in Louisville, Kentucky.