LEON WEINMANN

In Doubt, Recalling Cordelia

I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.
Or one hundred-eighty swallows turning south,

or the hen-and-chickens clustering on the garden wall.
That is not all: I cannot tell you all

the scroll of steam uncurling from the tea
might say about what is, or what might be

the common bloodline of this apparent world.
Its speech is locked away, a furled

flag of an antique country, since just a minute ago
was autumn, you saw it, the gold funeral fires, the smoke, and now

come these white billions, already, each irreplaceable flake,
and there is just too much to say for them—to say it would take

a tongue as old, as young, as Alexander, for too much goes
unnamed, unnoticed, more is coming, it snows

and snows all day and night and buries all the words.
But we are still responsible for them all, responsible for the birds,

the burning leaves, the climbing vine, we are the only ones
who can say just what it is we saw. And progress swells, a new scene runs,

and still we drop our lines, forget,
the silence piles up in drifts, we let

the words get lost, the tongue stalls—
How can I say how I love you? The burden of the old tune falls

out of my mouth like a stone. And do we name them cursed or blessed,
who love according to their bond, no more, no less?