Lines Written for Elmo Castelnuovo

Peter Everwine

It's not time that passes, it's you, it's I

-- Rutger Kopland

In winter, by late afternoon, it's almost dark

when you come home from the mine. I hear

the front gate creak and the metallic clink

of your pail before you round the corner

by the back steps where I've been waiting.

In the sharp chill of the air, the mineral

undercurrent of damp earth and shale

comes with you. You turn down the collar

of your shirt and let water from the pump

pour down your face and nape, the skin above

your undershirt pale as the crescent moon visible

above the darker mass of the hills.

• •

You drive for hours, heading nowhere; you walk

the streets at night and argue with the moon --

something hidden and manic in you emerged,

almost unnoticed, until at last you huddled

homeless and bewildered under a pile

of coats in an alleyway no wider

than the mines you entered as a young man.

The rat scuttling in the garbage bin, the cat

stalking the rat, did they become your familiars?

And the passersby, who glanced at you and hurried

on their way, did they believe you were invisible?

Did the tag knotted to your toe say nameless?

• • •

What I loved was the touch of your calloused hand

on my head, the coal-rimmed hollows of your eyes.

If you returned now from the sooty underworld

in which you dwell, you would not recognize me.

The gate is gone; the house and those who lived in it

are hidden elsewhere. Only the crescent moon

and darkling hills are as you left them. Come back

as you were, if only for a moment. I'm waiting

by the back steps. The kitchen window casts

its light; at the laden table the absent prepare

for your arrival. You will be hungry and tired,

as in those years through which our lives passed.