MORAVIAN
I enter the room at point zero, a new doorway never
there before. Even the illusionary paint is still wet;
by such illusions do I live...and then everything is
gone. Flash like a pan. Mermaid like a dream.
Scattered pearls like a digger's eye.
-
What I like the most : water snake and water
moccasin, two forms of life staggeringly low
and venal - they stop at nothing to slide over
rocks and grime and moss and slime. OK
then, that's all very fine. I owe no allegiance
to anything solemn at all. Forthright. Vague.
-
In the Moravian Cemetery where I am standing,
it is Bethlehem Pennsylvania and arrayed out
before me are all the flat graves from people
in the 1600's, and their faithful Indian guides.
Yes, that's what it says, and they are here
memorialized. And given graves. Places
where even their bones have been laid
to rest. To rot. Away. To nothing.
-
(I used to love the world as well.
Now I love only myself).
No comments:
Post a Comment