RIOT
I have no memory and it is all
a riot of time. My head shakes
to think of things I've done:
streetwalking with broken
bottles in a velvet hand. We
maim but but we must not
mar. Take these things home.
-
The plants of Autumn, left,
are finishing their work before
they crumple; dried and brown
and soon forgotten. Yet another
season will have them back with
us. So soon the passage, so soon
the return.
-
I think that sounds religious though
it isn't meant to be. This Life has
its own scruples : Past doctrine and
past category. Ice of Winter, snows
of January? Until April tries to
salvage something? Us?
-
How else could it be, this little effort
headed for its downward slope? In
so many ways, the words evoke:
Silence and regimentation; Blind
Lemon Jefferson and Robert Johnson
too : A heap of ash, in the container
of a distant yesteryear.
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