By | 1 February 2014

It doesn’t matter
And it can’t be done.

The way a wave
Won’t outlast the sun.

You see a word once
Then it’s gone again

Like wet paint drying on
A wall to be knocked down.

The songs are flashing
In a pond like signs, fish

Half-asleep until the ice
Is broken off.

It isn’t wrong to cough
When the big guns sing.

I had a vocation,
It had begun.

It lasted two weeks,
A vacation more than anything.

It gave great pleasure
To the lofty mice.

My silent words, O Lord, to you
Were offerings

Of sugar and spice.
By morning the platter

Was licked clean and bare
By vermin who had fed

On my adoration.
It had been bent and soft

Before then, then hard and coarse.
For once you care,

Care can’t be taken anymore.
You’re sent off course.

What goes is gone, what goes ahead
Is just enough to stay a hand

From making bad things worse,
Or worse, bedding things best left unsaid.

Undone is what all sheets were once,
On that occasion when they bled.

What lost its purpose
Was the poise. To clear

My heart my throat makes noise.
Above the ceremony

Good birds take wing
And in their leaving notify

The ground that soaring brings
A distance to be mastery,

In the new conjoining
Of thought and thing.

It wasn’t clearly meant
To be just above,

Which is why love always
Lies down in the end.

This entry was posted in 60: SILENCE and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.