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Posts Tagged ‘Minecraft’

Reversion

Tonight we rolled back
a month of mornings that crept,
tickwise, the whole of the sky
like the firmament thought once
to swaddle the world,
star-layers and strata
stowing little ellipses
nested like cyclical gears.

Weeks of work undone
in the wake of an error,
but I am untroubled,
carrying only a pick
and a shovel, a drive
to remake what we’ve both wiped away.

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Tedious excision, like severing
mold lines from a crusader:
You razor our home from its played-out old world,
lift it up like a cloud-hoisted castle,
oaken ark driven by many
waters up from a still plain.

It drifts like a lily shorn off from its root
and then settles downstream: little farm,
far-flung tracks still intact,
framed now by scarp and topple,
precipice edges abutting the ocean,
sunflower plains, mushrooms suited
for shortcuts and shrinking,
stippled allium and oxeye ringing the trees.

Our matching maps, new-made and blank,
unveil step by step what’s ahead of our marks,
a half-glimpse before us. An inkling. A hint.

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Enderman

Like the fading red
remnant after three and cheese,
you flutter through the dawning downpour
as a kindergartner
strafes miss the rain,
pivoting on bare toes
in a hummingbird’s zag,
more drenched with every dodge.

From the window I watch you
dart and dwindle,
each flash farther
from the safety of the snow.

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Parti-colored herd, they did not gambol,
hardly frolicked, rarely reared
until with open hand and luck
we tried ourselves at riding,
stirrupless, without hands cupped to boost
and launch us to the sway,

and that empty offering
only after clearing ground for wheat,
felling apples, scouring shores for sugar cane
in the hope of tempting, taming.

Yours a solid black, and mine is dappled gray
as we gallop for the trees,
consider the first frontier’s assault
against the underbrush,
every going slow, anchored in the want
of an easy path through.

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In the mushroom field, bound in by ice and stream,
by the far flock of forest from behind,
there stout redcaps and lanky toadstools grew,

which I worked in with meal and shade.
Tops and stems stood tall enough to walk beneath,
to circle and pretend a life that’s fair or fey.

Speckled red and stoic cream are shot
through now with cobble, with knotted slab,
and at their feet unfold the mycelium tiers

undercut by hiss and bang, the misty blasted ground
undone by sinister green.
I know we can repair it. I know

how unadult it seems to mourn a fancy
twice removed from real, to grieve after an artifice
in a world where almost nothing’s indestructible,

where pick and time take anything apart.
I wish for the reality of gardens, for the solemn
turn at the cusp of sprig, spade

crisp through the crust, like a moon
of silver through brûlée, everything beneath it
sweet, moist like succulents and dew.

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A random place but one we made
once we wandered to it,
one peopled at first by only we two,

unearthed from the hillside and shored
in grey stone. The walk and the roof
forever snowed under, the regular ambient howl

of some cave still unfound and unlit
dress the scene more as outpost than home.
But the whole of it’s mortared

in loving you, and the walls we might line
now with lapis we set in when iron was dear,
our room with its gold clock and hearth

bloomed out from an anchorite’s alcove,
its fire impossibly constant.
Now out from a visitor’s parapet I watch

for sunrise, every ounce with me a treasure –
worn tools left behind to fit diamond and pearl –
waiting for daylight to start the walk home.

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Torch

Hand’s-width of comfort
anchored to stone

sheds light like the fragrance
of home from the hearth

after decades of stew and fire,
a palisade glow to keep

driven-out terrors from rising again,
to mark off the cliffs and the drops.

It breaks tides of gravel and sand
as sand shoals the tide at the shore,

and one tops the tree like a beacon,
its light like a shimmer of captured star.

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