Friday, February 01, 2008

poetry

The moon that grinning hearseman
has me behind with no breath for windows to show
And the countryside passes through me
All the metal in the hills calls my breast to pause
so iron in heart & copper under earth can speak
Of that and this
To plan alloys, for when my flesh is gone
so soon, soon so soon I will sigh a song out for myself
passing as I do through this countryside
The moon unceasing stops for none, his hearse, my hearse moves on.

The horizon holds a copse, and
my corpse searches the horizon to be held
this country passes through me, and the hills
and the trees, I am carried through them
Now on the shoulders of men, of friends
and I am a burden
Under me their backs are bending,
My living has pulled out their bones. I did this on purpose,
Let me tell you about the trees,
... Silk they have, yes, lavender lashes
... in clumps, like spheres - you know,
... as you've crossed bridges you have seen
... the tops of these trees
... with your hands
These pass through me, and others
greener and grayer strengths
sifting from my passing
a moment or more, No blessings
because I am unconsecrated
piety in blood has drained from me
it has left me, but I am not left

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