Wednesday, October 6, 2010

false idyll

There is a blue press to this scattered sky, a shine made of glass and water, a color straight from a box of crayons. There is a beauty that hangs heavy from every bough, wire, and head. Squirrels gnaw at remaindered walnuts, leaving jagged meat and husk. Shards that make the impression of constellations, dots and stars cut into bare flesh. A worm writhes up through the surface, devouring its way through the world.

The promises screamed are bound to be broken. They are riven from the inside, rotted from the root. All the words spat out tainted with poison, a heart all but drowned in a short lifetime of daily cruelty. The only truth known written in break and bruises. The only truth bound wrong before it had a chance to be free. We contain the violence still burning in these wild bones, the perpetrator nowhere to be seen. We mark the border lands where almost everyone looks away.

I carry home the cuts and bruises. I carry the mark of some deep and buried crime. Empty shells like wooden knives littering the grass. The rock-like impact of a half a dozen nuts missed by squirrel, weaponized by a seething sickness that wears the skin of a little lost boy. The trees sway, scraping away at the heavens. The wind writes its stories in the stretch of sky and the sweep of fall. Beneath each labor, an ancient chain of error. Beneath each calm, a struggle.

No comments:

Post a Comment