Tagore Variations 4

4

You say that some go south listening

for the light to ask the river its last

story, then the sea. Instead, we stay here

wind and vacancy beside the water. Late

night, in a city, shadows pass beneath

streetlights—and we are loved like

strangers there love the young violinist

behind the window’s curtain, the care

she takes to bow each mistake, to hear

her fingers slip toward what they know.

And not knowing you calls me now

into cottonwoods at the simple edge of

the river—darkness swings from branches

like a crippled bat, blooming in

its crooked flight. The river meanders

you say. Late leaves, unrelenting scribes:

tell us of the caterpillar’s approach

to loss, how it closes the gaps of shade

around it, trades gravity for a black

flake stamped with light.