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for so long I have
played their fool have crawled through life as instructed. now so little time left I assume the dancer's pose bend a single thumb to gravity unlisten those who have said: be reasonable. plan ahead. who told me don't be foolish you cannot feel the earth move. but here in a quiet seat of crushed roses I have witnessed the stars pirouette night like practiced dervishes have felt the tides leverage my bones so subtly seaward like smiling bankers reclaiming loans. go on. be reasonable. keep your seatbelts buckled. I am no longer with you my weeping is the knife that cuts the harness. when Shiva awakes he will not stand still. for so long I have
felt like one of the dying leaping shadow to shadow so that the sun which hurts like a caress would not tell me: so great the variety of flowers on this earth the living shall never finish counting them. it is that which punishes me the rose not enough my eyes not wide enough to cup all this light that burdens us my hands too careless to keep more than a simple dipper of rain no more than would sustain a single miniscule violet there are holes between my fingers the grief that grows like moss on this thought deepens the kisses if you understand do not speak do something else instead. on the beach awaiting the next
shipwreck mercy I read of base jumpers raining to their deaths like bullets parachutes spilling confetti now there are car accidents lining up on the guardrails just you check the news a woman froze to death on Mount Adams wind crushing the print of her face in snow as the rest of us dined made love and listen I'll tell you how my grandmother slipped out of this world the way a vixen slips between trees on a crisp morning she was there then wasn't and so it goes a catamount kills a bicyclist out west no reason cancer is a shadowed stranger waiting behind trees downtown time has it in for us all & yes with these words I stick your blind finger in the socket that could shut or open a flailing heart but for despair or love if loving you imagine viscerally the fall bones powdered against schist how sad your face caked in zigzagged daggered rime the giddy zither of car metal before gravity marries mass the lean of a bicycle standing alone in a corner a trackless route through the trees the fox takes before it removes its foxness from your knowing with a permanence that will not go away or make sense but if you know these things and believe and in knowing believing burn perhaps also you see this is exactly what you walked the beach to witness the tide oh the tide everything it takes away yes but also everything it washes up. thank you, sincerely, with flowers and a single cup of fresh water with
swimming holes, dry wings and feathers thank you for asking how I am doing thank you I am well having not combusted spontaneously (though keeping a lighter in my breast pocket for fireworks on exit) yes I am well having not stepped off my pointed gables into outer space (the stars are sweeter than purple cherries but they must wait until I am done with this kissing) but I tell you, the truth is shocking as a cancelled funeral--that I am beginning to believe this earth chose me for itself and by proof I mean has seduced me with gravity delicious as a perfect navel in a perfect belly (all desire sees is perfection) and draws my eyes down this lover's grassy bed again down again it's worth repeating as any love lived is worth repeating. so again I remember how I've stopped listening to those who taught me that I grew up brokenlegged and instead I recall how I was carried forth on the Boat of Small Things: for instance my grandfather's devil laugh my grandmother's stoic ferocity. he was my Charlie Chaplin. she my Bear. I could go on. so many instances, so many tiny teacups of tenderness each so small that mice could partake but so many I am buoyant on their ocean, singing like a bell buoy. how being remembered is as if etched deeper into the Book of All Things Illuminated, opened again and again by your simple asking. |
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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