Saturday, January 9, 2010

680. SANDMAN

SANDMAN
(the jazz loft project, 1966)
Every disease in the book thrown
face-forward down to the ground :
a worming boring come-uppance digging its way downward
towards a vital truth. We all know nothing. Bones of long ago.
The forest's own wood, all unchanging and serving the purpose.
Swaddled in ice and chill. Black Forest density with the
buckling intentions of enigma and feint. We each know
nothing. Balsa, pine, maple, cherry - everything
the forest can make. Like arms and the man.
Unsettled. Weeds on the edge of the swamp.
(I need to tell you a story. My mind is so
confused it cannot speak). The air is
adrift with distant vistas. Someone
is walking a dog, asleep.
Blow, daddy blow.

No comments: