2 (Song, with Heathen)
What is it the world wants from me? My plots
and rules? My sense of myself as a tiny king
who can only bind himself, but still at times
breaks those bonds (which is not the smallest thing
to be proud of)? Or does it want to be the bonds?
The world seems furious to me sometimes.
The difference between its laughter and its wrath
minimal at best. I’m just resigned
to listening most of the time, but I will tell you
that occasionally I think I hear music
in its voice, songs as beautiful and broken
as a vase. I feel looser or let loose or ludic,
or something like that, on those days. I kiss my own
feet and laugh at the dust in my mouth, my huge
smile full of field. On all the other days,
I listen, as I said, but seek, and take, refuge.
3 (Song, with Mountain)
I have lost so many friends to the whims of the world.
Old trees die every year here and fierce new trees
rise up in their places. You could say of this life
that there will be no rescue, despite our pleas,
despite the shields of friendship and shields of sleep.
I lie down and I weep, sometimes. Other times
a mountain lies down in me. Rise, mountain! I say,
but it sleeps; it’s rescued itself, I guess, which is fine.
Nathaniel Perry is the author of two books of poetry, Nine Acres (Copper Canyon, 2011) and Long Rules (Backwaters, 2021), and a book of essays on poetry, Joy (Or Something Darker but Like It) (University of Michigan, 2024). He lives in Virginia and is editor of the Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review.
Read more poetry by Nathaniel Perry originally published in Terrain.org: two poems, “March,” and three other poems.
