Vernon Witmer | + Follow Poet |
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The Brick

I do not hear the words, far too busy in my ears
laying golden tracks of forceful movement 
They carry me away, away. always to away.
Stretch horizon, many ones and zeros, far away.
Starlit destination on that noblest of hill.
Girls and ladies youthful arms, all reaching for our home.
My eyes look at me. They are not my own.
From plastered plains; 
ears that hear the plastered pain of linings.
I am this microscope of telescoping ears still bathed
in voices from a light of shinings.
Voices of the nighttimes endless day.
Voices from the ears and eyes
sound and sight of every see and say.
Things they bring 
to me, in whispers and in glances; 	
puppies, kittens, mystic kisses,
wishers of babies and second chances
Chicken scratch, chlorine sheets 
blowing in winter storms.
We all die frozen on the tundra, 
no final whispered sound.
Our people’s lended home a final 
form arrested, final mound.
Explorers all, we do not know our stumbled gait.
We watch and wait and then we take the bait.
Mindless fish
with crooked intuition;
missing in between the lives we touch,
mirrors brushed and polished, 
ears tickled in visions, 
things we think we know; and such and such.
Eyes alone and closed, the time we’re here;
opened only when we disappear.
Oh,  Oh,  silence, I am here.
I am here. I will always be,
Leaving.
Those of us who love this much, grieve for beauty, holy, touch
and all lost love
from hearts that cannot feel.
Voices  
who would love too much.
I am the branch I use to poke this earth.
Stirring her aspect, crying, gifted, cursed.
Awhaile, this ghosted touch. 
Released to please, a stone to throw.
A brick you could not know.

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