where
are the witnesses
who
is to break open
the
wax sealed graves
dug
lips gold skin
who
will wade the rums of steeped desire
who
will find out if the caves
lead
to roots and trees and leaves again
or
if memory is the only seed left
are
the artists the only ones still tilling the fields
to
see if we can grow here
after
everything is gone
drift-netting
the hyperbole of clocks
I
remember to drink from the cupped crescent worlds
I
crawl past rust in the Sun
jagging
the slags at the edges of my sanity
I
am shape-shifting my dark parts past midnight
weed-neat
rowing Love's ache breaking through the concrete
as
this world is coming down with amnesia
one
town at a time
this
town, that town, my town too
used
to be all promise and bustle
with
the ease of technology
where
hustling meant thriving wholly
instead
of just surviving another Holy chapter change
I
keep precious in the narrative
in
the sacred long birth of my gravity
in
all the houses at the edge of perpetual death
shadow
harvesting the folded empty vitality of mementos
wrapping
them in my black velvet soul
I
am crawling in
these odd weather blues
with
those milk tit skies,
warm
handed valleys and
tided
tongues of ritual singing
that
I had better not stop
trying
to believe in me
EJR
(c)
Another piece, that as I read it several times, I like more with each reading. And there is always something about your last stanzas that spark.
ReplyDeleteI appreciate your ears...very much so...
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