Between the Moon and Th Sun (A Preface)
You would think it enough
How this body wears its time
Like a fading memory
Of cycles
In the prison of the sun
Prisms, prisons, pyramids
They are all the same
Priests of muted things
In the ritual of identity
Of this sense of I
Isolated from the world
Seeking a mortality
For matter
Yet even after death
I am there
In the winds breath
Making leaves drunk with green
I am there
In the root of history
Primal and obscene
Why do I tell you
The prism of ignorance
Makes Babel of everything
Again and again
We follow the trail of the moon
Along the bed of rivers
Whose water I carry
In veins dissolving stone
And after each dissolution
There is enough mud
For the aesthetics of pots
Pots!
Is this all the meaning left
In broken shards of stars?
I yawn for oil or wine ...
Matters only
As paradigms for blood or semen
Something to seed
Our conscious regimen
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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