Take It Home In a Glass Jar
1.
geese fly backward--
across the skies of my brain.
a winter foretold in my lungs…
2.
a word is forgotten--
as the wheelbarrow turns,
a forlorn wheel
the corruption of rust the only blessing…
3.
most of words i have tucked--
into my breast pocket,
have blown away
constellations without names…
4.
as leaves glide into
the spaces of sentences--
my footsteps hidden,
by the winds emergence
as i step on the mysterious
punctuations of sunflowers
as a touchstone in uncertain times…
5.
my lips soundless as my cane--
finds the right path as paragraphs merge
into their own engines of meaning…
6.
i have chosen not to say--
for my language holds
no beauty no comfort
as galaxies swarm stellar
tipped over hives,
in impossible dog-eared dictionaries…
7
for in the night a moon--
like a shapely nude
i touch with my eyes
my eyelashes brush gentle like a moth,
end-month moon
blooms in misting window,
my misfiring synapse bend
a spoon i have barrowed--
a worn metaphor
left behind in the empty poem.
perhaps a child may find it
and take it home in a glass jar…
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2006
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