Lux Aus­tralis

New England Review - - Recolllections - Camp­bell Mcgrath

Early evening honey and whiskey, that sweet­ness, bees in the ever-blos­som­ing tresses of your hair, dar­ling, the touch of a hand like wa­ter in a parched man's cup,

the way mem­ory chimes its sil­ver-stringed guitar like moon­light on a spi­der web, milk­weed stalks against rusted-out pickup trucks, their wan­der­ing seed our only con­stel­la­tions,

bells in the vel­vet dark­ness be­fore dawn, that mys­tery, that con­so­la­tion, worn-down paths we walk for­ti­fied by trust in sim­plic­ity and cans of beer in wind off the soon to be planted fields.

O let us re­seed the gar­den and eat veg­etable soup and never go to town, not even for bread. Let us in­habit this mo­ment for­ever and ever. Live with me al­ways in the scrap­yard of my heart.

Camp­bell Mcgrath

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