Tuttle, Closer

When Mother was a girl
the streetcar came
while it was still an hour dark
(“To fetch the early worms to town”, she said).

She would wait under the tower
at 42nd street and Avenue E
swathed in fake blue moonlight
a sister then, and a daughter

no thought of anything more.
The lot was filled with ash juniper
and smelled so cedar-sweet
she didn’t mind sneezing in winter.

And when the streetcar came
she would hang to a strap facing east
hoping to see the sun peek
through the window along the way.

In early morning, beneath
the same moon tower, I praise
the descendents of ash juniper
that flowered for her—


so close—
my God, so close in time—
I feel a sense—
it is the rest of me—

the words I cannot find—
the In-Between—where True Word is—
seeing square, no turning
here—only this latter time—

desert sand—cactus land—
and burning
burning
burning.