At the End of It All
How helpless….is the line of fidelity…
like a cry in the night a river in the
desert
conceived in the sand and perishing in
the sand...
down inside where memory and blood
flow in mineshafts well chambers
full of dark names.
Fortune
Telling
Zbigniew
Herbert
Maybe by the
time I get back I can't be recognized
maybe so much of
the tide will have arrived and gone to sky,
churned and
bummed off by a salt cloud that goes and rolls so
fast
it’s a bullet
from a .45 or its sweat in the gun metal
or it’s breath
in the powder under the cap it’s sitting
there a Buddha’s
thought on a shelf suspended
with enemies
and friends around its belly I am not the one you used
to know we both
will say simultaneously we’ll press
the fidelity
line with the delicate tip of memory, revive
each other the
way God must’ve revived Adam after
that brief
sleep of eternity so he could open and close
the cage he
kept all to himself in the bone departing whole
grown into a
woman just like that just like all the pasts
coming home and
waiting behind the drapes sometimes
patient
sometimes jumping the gun only to be pushed
back onto the bed and thrust and smelted into a shape
that is at once
a blade and at once mirror
No comments:
Post a Comment