Apr. 23rd, 2011

dreamwitch: (Default)
Things I love: poems that tumble out
At the end: messengers for an apocalypse
Of word, gesture, execution; an avalanche
Of sound and chord, a fury of locution.

Where there's an end, there's a beginning:
Not yours perhaps, and not ours, and not for hours
And nothing you'd remember or get to forget,
Only someone, somewhere, being born screaming.


I admire you, who lives each day with force:
Speaking true words, breathing honest breaths, insisting
That the truth is there between us, waiting
Needing us; the way a white screen waits for a projector
The way your mathematics needs a vector.


I don't think I've ever said an honest word;
I love you, perhaps, and I won't forget, and more yet
These are phrases, and love alone is another word for regret.


There's a girl with long dark hair in the desert, bike in hand:
Vroom! Vroom!

I think she knows the words we swallowed,
And she never waits; not for the end of days,
Not for time to follow.

January 2012

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