A Cargo of Green Hearts
~POEMS~
sometimes the snow
reminds me of loss how it blurs the silhouette and takes what it takes into its long white mouth the way our memory of the dead or abandoned are blurred to imagination taken from us or neglected by us and not unlike the longing of a vacated chair left askew, as if it should hold something again the shape of a hip or a sigh but doesn't. I.
because I am so sad and ordinary my eyes brown like common nuts I go down to the river at midnight to bathe hoping to take on a little sheen from the moon maybe, and glisten. II. it is an ordinary thing perhaps, to be told we are loved but it is extraordinary to believe it. the nesting owlets open their sickled beaks and are fed. again the sun is tossed into the air at 5am and the phloem of trees flutes water into the leaves that wave thankfully over this rare earth daughter to a common star. we wake up believing we won’t live but we do, proving that even the dead haven’t left us and the light is truly ours. III. I will take the word into my mouth and repeat it the way the holy and mad can’t help themselves from reciting. and in exchange I will not die slowly. IV. I am ordinary but in this light the entire world is silver. dear world, I am sorry I did not believe that you left me here to live. I.
I am thinking of the going of things of the eventual tiger of love of the disappearance of certain trees or all trees. there is an ocean of things that went and can't ever be got back not if we prayed hard and skun our knees doing it like the moa like the mammoth like the dripping minutes like unmouthed words the relentless passing and eventual forgetting threshold of the Place of Lost Things-- what the old mapmakers were thinking when they marked the End of the World on their beige parchment and trembled like malarial surgeons-- II. which I would like to visit, and get lost in myself among the mysterious dead among the old stone walls that run on to the moon among the dreams devoured by breakfast among gods we invented or murdered by way of my feet tracking beaches cobbled in missing pennies. III. to build a kind life there among the Gone which is limitless and unsubmitting to further time and not lament the world of the Present and Accounted with its long list of Things That Shall Exist each with its little check-box, each with its little expiration date. |
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
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