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if it is true
that all is an illusion and even matter is a waltz of tiny fires, waves of light then why can’t it be true that the dragonfly stitches tight the lips of the dead so they will not speak secrets of that other world woven of stars that the living must not know of and the loons who we think fly south led by bits of magnetite sunk in their whistling skulls really sail on endlessly passing from galaxy to galaxy lamenting in their lonely way the extinction of mysteries while beneath the waves the starfish armed like hands bind this world for us keep it from flying apart in a grip tighter than gravity, more tenacious than love and somewhere in a jungle which is always somewhere other than we can be, the tiger striped in sunrise, wind and black night abrades a path through the trees the sparks of its passage making it possible for us to dream. in my life without a lover
throughout my house kisses move like blind hummingbirds windows rattle and complain my hands linger on vases the necks of wine bottles, doorless doorways I inhabit my furniture despairingly the way an animal inhabits a zoo and cry over small things dead moths, broken yolks, sad clouds. outside, the world goes on and on painting itself tangerines while I dissolve in my shower raise myself from the endless floors and wait for night, sweet night to climb into my bed out of pity. |
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
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Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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