THE STRICT MATTER
IS THE HARD STUFF
All the things which once used to grab
me, now turned soft and nothing, remain
a meaning with no context : the light on
the end of the shield, the skyline, where
I see it glowing. Every story, having
now reached a sort of end, seeks an
addendum. I'll gladly give it.
Return me to the house, where I
shoveled to sweat, watched sun melt
snow, only later to see the black tar
of the roadway emerge. Again. We
have footing - something as equal
in good as a blossom in Spring.
I speak now, warbled in some pensive
memory, of all those other days I still.
recollect. Some ten kinds of birds, each
fighting it out around my head for noise.
The mosquito arc and the woodpecker
hammer. On and on and on it goes.
The hard stuff is strict matter.