LOGJAM GONE TO PIECES
They've come after me now with a hammer.
This place reeks of my own formaldehyde, and
the river's about to blossom with way too many
logs and cuts. Men die from these break-ups -
timber smashing free, stressing even the water
with the force, and squashing men like peas.
-
I really want to be more sensitive than this; and I am.
I read of the men from distant wars, who only learned
to appreciate the sky at night and morning when it was
all they had above their heads in the hours before their
most-uncertain survival's end. As that was, now it's not.
-
I live in the nighttime sky - tracing those lunar beams and
shadings on everything, writing words of different meanings
to placate angry Gods, and watching the weather to see what
fury will bring. It's no laughing matter, even though I will
survive. My heart is sounder than the reasons men use
to kill by, and - for every care they claim to have - I
have twenty more than they do.
-
Here, here are my feet. Torn-calloused, with socks and
hurting. Right by them, believe it or not, my own curled
dog sleeps - making those wonderful canine noises of
sleep, sounds I can almost hear to understand. She plays
in her dreams in a frolic of joy. If I could only share, I'd
better understand. As it is, so many things leave me dark.
-
What are we but blots? Where are we headed but,
once more, downstairs. Whether we call it up or down,
the fact is, more pointedly, that there's no direction at
all. Worry not, then, free-stump that you are. What is
present is what has been. What has yet to come,
be sure, is coming; a logjam gone to pieces.
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