This Will Move Too Quickly for the Eyes

You know these spots in the forests.
Writers of a special precision of the ear
have listened there: “All speech made here
will know an early withering,” James Still
prophesied of a portion of wilderness,
a certain acre I imagine, haunted to quietude,
consuming all useless foreign noises
into the forest belly of fertility, teaching
the futility of escape, where echoes
try, but fall so short. What comes here,
mostly stays, I think. You recognize
such ground when you cross in, near
its heartwood. Its demand of your words
to grow fewer clearly communicated
up through the soil space, some widened
eyes, hearing pricked up and prepared
for some new thing you would gladly have
reach out. An expansion from all approaches,
from where dark intercedes along
the surrounding tree lines, where music
stopped.
                  Pray here, assured what you ask
is kept in an odd strength beyond beauty.
Beyond what you think is needed. That
thing which may happen upon your whispers,
does so not by your bidding. Let it find
you withered on its meandering night path,
readied for wordless dancing. For a telling.

Larry D. Thacker’s poetry can be found in over sixty magazines and journals, including Still: The Journal, Poetry South, Mad River Review, The Southern Poetry Anthology, Mojave River Review, Mannequin Haus, Ghost City Review, Jazz Cigarette, and Appalachian Heritage. His books include Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia, and the poetry books Voice Hunting and Memory Train, as well as the forthcoming Drifting in Awe. Visit his website at: http://www.larrydthacker.com.

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