The dusk settles the bet between the sky and the crows, clouds and phone poles, wings and trees. The ink dries slow and solemn. This is the world that bears you. This is the world that knows your kine. Every flight will fall, every word will fail. Everything tendered as smoke or ghosts.
The words are pressed between the pages, stiff-spined litanies forever holding their breath. The feathers bend soft and strong. This is the weight the sky allows. This is the weight that bears your burden. Every eye so set upon the sharpness of each star. Everything written as boom or bust.
So much depends the poem goes. Heaven all about who's asking. The truth scribbled down as the most often abandoned, a stone sleeping on the tongue, a piece of glass buried beneath the heart. This dull hope, this deep measure. The body either dead or alive, depending on the words or facts around it. Breath taking to the flesh and machinations, rise or fall, gravy or grave. These wages and wagers, the shadows reach and stretch. The sparrow a sparrow whatever is said.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
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simmer
The hours drag and drawl, the vision blurs and fades. The world is more at once, this flight of wing and flower, this litany of sudden silk ...
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The season settles again on the unseasonable, my bones ring with the resonant chill, something’s always missing after a death. The hard shif...
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So it is the scintillance of wind and leaf, abundant boughs swaying in the long last light as the sun sets off and the world falls away. So ...
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There’s not much to do once the sinking sets in, once you feel the collapse throughout the collateral, the drag of the earth’s core gripping...
until the day we fill the hollow words in old books. Until we breath life into something that neither; nor alive. Just stagnate .... because it has nothing else to do
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