INCENDIARY FURTIVE
In speaking in tongues, in talking to a
cousin, in learning those needed angles
for ricochet and bump, in all of those
things so much that is needed is an odd
classy silence. Even then, when the light
comes on, when the lick of flame flickers
over some lost apostle's head, there's no
room to maneuver and no need to reply.
Words alone can't do it. That bright,
shining blast of light comes through,
cutting the welder's world with its fire,
the mechanic's sure toil, the salesman's
glib knowledge. No, no, in such moments
as these, I walk away. I sense the light
and I sense the feeling. And I walk away.
No comments:
Post a Comment