the dog hunting
(for Martin Royackers, murdered June 20, 2001)

What is unseen moves through what is seen into the dark 
the dog turns aside from its evening walk to stare into the night
poised for flight a rabbit quivers under the cedar hedge
freezes into flame. Like calls to like. The single desire stretches and shapes

the wor(l)d’s weal each runed stone a door the way through more silent
than its silence   to know this now
only when it does not matter  a gesture  memory’s warren and in the hand
nothing

what is this world beyond emptiness
cupped behind one’s back? This light, the body, and the land
clear and simple a dream
then the season turned the sky the colour of old trout; the moon a cloudy eye

all journeys come to this joy
a surprise to those still on the way
that too one leaves at each station of the cross
to return for those still lost

blessed are the blind that do not see
the ecstasy before them 
a deeper darkness
flame that feels like
pain and then
such simplicity   
a pear in a blue bowl
the scatter of birds shaping a sky

again its summer the smell of wet dog
coming up from the swamp the blue heron
awkward insistent troubled
in its flight

and now Martin’s dead. Murdered in Jamaica
the island an open wound the blood of Christ
clots a tourist’s sand (sea weeded) 
tugs and rots with each passing tide

admit it    this grief a point of view,
the gun in the late tropical afternoon another,
the one behind it another, the cries and echoes
of each story beached on a newspaper.

Annotto Bay. St. Theresa’s
Church. June 20, 2001 Martin turns from locking his sacristy
faces an open question
lurches
and is covered the morning after by the
deacon. such service

this world’s a suitcase  
the lock’s sprung   a life
tumbles out onto a soiled land a stream of pain pours
into the bay

each bend in the river promise a blessing

the dog catches the hope in our eyes
and turns away

don’t look back
you need empty arms
this is all
we can carry