|
it’s enough to have got
this far, truant from the dust. the sea’s uneven gravity, the way the horizon wraps me in its orange sail. I am misunderstanding Itself but the sun shines through my thin ribs. it’s the light that blinds them and I’m not responsible for that. I long since stopped wearing the shirts they made for me; no offense to the Monkey King but my path is different when I bow my whole body dissolves. I’ve died on the floor and will again. when the sea takes me at last no one will notice. the sand will never stop. someday her hand will arrive reckless and green and I’ll be gone. I am not a servant, I’m her beloved don’t talk foolishly to me as if there is no difference. the moon rises
spilling argent coins over a burnished earth. I sleep through it and dream I deserve nothing. the wind all night
as if trying to peel the roof off like a can opener reminded me of everything I've lived the heart as a wrecking ball but this time as if in the hurricane love but no human love as if embrace within the whirlwind if no one will have my back let the sky itself have it let the wind have at it as the eraser-tongued bodhisatvas said let there be no daylight between my heaven and earth. and now you go.
the ice has poured is frozen muscle through the windows and the house is unlivable. your heart swells as if to take the place of your house. you must live there now, among the red doors and windows carrying this house being carried by it. your name is now heart. your purpose, heart. you're doing this right now, straight on through winter. three geese flew across the lake
which was frozen listen: they will land somewhere, just not here where you can see them. I thought I would die when the water hardened I thought the earth had been cast into outer space like a discarded apple core. the frogs had departed with their squeaking green suitcases and I was alone only the trees observed my sorrow nakedly my vocabulary shrunken to verbs consumed in the mechanics of firemaking Durga, if your eyes are still green tell me if I am meant to see the landing of the geese. if I must be dragged forcibly to April please, as if I am still a worthy human being (and not an ox) keep pulling by the heart not the nose. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
January 2020
Categories
Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
|
RSS Feed