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Trio
By
Paul G. McCurdy
Here is the fog that moves
like a ghost of the beloved
on the hills overlooking the Bay.
My little car has trouble
with these heights, but I climb
slowly and remember the first time
I drove through cloud.
An adventurer,
one who leaves his mother-cave
and father-fire. Past strange snows
of northern Alabama. Past the great
white towers of nuclear power in Arkansas.
Through Texas and barren stretches where one
might still disappear. To California:
a checkpoint for foreign fruit, and freeways
that wind through foggy greens and whites.
Tonight the mist hides time
from the house where the ritual begins.
One, two, three, four:
Cello warms and purrs like the bear
of a rug it rests on; violin
floats slim and pure like the air
up here. My piano finds pulse
in these vibrations.
This is not for you, but me.
This is my secret moment, which
reaches back to the very beginning.
The fog grows thick and from a distance
let a hill be seen to raise itself
and hover, for an unending moment,
apart from all things.
Copyright © 2006 Paul G. McCurdy
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