Tuesday, March 28, 2017

The Incantation of Sprung


The ringing had to have been
the resistance of air in being dissected
with a rugged swung scythe.

A crude way to make matters worse.

Should we speak up
so breath can chime in and tune on its own
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know

where we were going
when it is over?

Souls dissipate most visibly
when the sun is a mere
ten degrees above the arc at the end of All

and they blush as they come
into vulgar exposure.

The vertiginous extension of body
feels its mineral composition,
just as the mountain has long since
gathered here and crumbled there
under the broom of wind and whistling.

The wait is the same atomic gravitas
so we make music on its shoulders,
conjuring notes we hope will
carry,
raining colors in a natural spring

Forward marching over the detritus
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and 
carried by such quick sand.

To hear and to be heard over the years
something so sharply.



Watercolor by Karl Bodmer (1836) Assinboin in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No comments:

Post a Comment

And then...

  Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign,  at first...