Wednesday, May 19, 2010
We Dead Reckon on Rainy Days
slate, iron ore,
a heavy metal
mercurial day.
Cold again and won't ever feel warm.
The day seems bent to my dark and rainy mood
like the moth sucked in by the dining room lamp
and can't be shooed out again.
Big and mottled as a fall leaf come alive,
Autumn flapping and fecund in my apartment,
the spring day smothered and lost by unseasonable weather.
Where is my sun? Lost,
fallen off the far side of the world.
I leave land and cross oceans and wander, balance
along the weeping edge of the world, watch
the stars pour into the sea and quench the thirst of the three elephants holding up the flimsy bowl of the world.
Looking out
I can see Clio balancing her book bigger than the universe,
in fact, the universe is caught inside it's bindings and looking backward
I see that the ocean is not made of hydrogen and oxygen molecules
but is the black dissolved ink of of all the stories forgotten and never retold.
The sea will take over the coastal cities because we have forgotten
that the world exists in the retelling of the old tales
and we are going to be drowned
in a Tsunami of all we refuse to know.
But here alone, I can forget all that.
Here where all rivers come to end and drain themselves
back into the beginning of it all.
Where nothing matters because matter ceases
and I can wait,
with the stars and the eternal words
written in the dark spaces between them.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment