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you will have to excuse me for having never been good at blind devotion to anything except love, whose stigmata is the rose whose politics are quiet whose platform is as low as the knees. it's true, I'm a troublemaker and advocate of the devil, put me in a cathedral and I'll point out the weak brick. but for love, whose mason is the blue-eyed sky, watch as I shed my coat of Bear it's safe to approach me when I'm like this with my nose in the dust, with a bindi of wild strawberry embedded in my forehead I could be killed so easily, trampled by a mob of teenagers, crushed by the leaf of a single feather its predestined I'll die this way, flattened on I-93 a jaywalking florist with a wildflower bouquet. when you find me killed that way, the coat of Bear is yours. maybe you will discover as I have that only in putting that jacket on can you know what it is like to take it off. dams are cracked this way. if you are wise not merely curious, keep a cup handy to bail out to boat of this world. to keep yourself from drowning. whatever blood you can't catch is yours. with the rain
an old sorrow arrives. what kneels on my bed what touches my face: ahhhh. while outside, the trees and the green grass are taller than before are singing some old song about going to the sky. Durga, how cleverly you break me down into these words that keep rising up. |
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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