Oh but the light is always leaving,
our prayers wrung so hollow,
crumbs stuck to the plate.
Dusk only settles when the reckoning is wrong,
those lingering persuasions of sun,
the unintended blessings mentioned
as the passing of tired burdens.
The palette chooses grays and blues,
the black coffee bitter,
the moon but a husk.
The bassline beats at blood and stucco
the plaster all but peeling
with these painted metal fears.
Night arrives with out an escort.
Night arrives without hope or spite.
The dogs are always barking,
all strangers their neighbors.
Warning through fence and shrub,
calling out through window and wall.
The light has left us here.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
the habit
The dog is barking and you’re sick in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of the wind and television, dying hard with every habit. Now the li...
-
This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
-
The heart is reckless mechanism. The heart is an essential worker. The heart won’t leave well enough alone. Carrying torches and keeping tim...
-
Knowing no more of music than what you hear you see three crows fly across four power lines and think: Music! And that is seeing. And that i...
No comments:
Post a Comment