October 14, 2012

poem 374 of a poem a day for 2012

between being late and my idolatry of desire

my fingers are out-stretched
reaching through Demeter’s hair
in the bough creaking groans
in the thinning sweeps of leaves
in the southerlies advance
over Winter
high in the skies
a hot iron brittle Autumn
keeps the ice above
traps the dead
and dying
this inverted
valley warm
this dry-tongue sear
this snake-bedded memory
seeks the run-off
to hide in pockets
of shade
deep in the shale
wanting to feed 
a thirst enough 
to cut rivers 
into the clay

the desiccates
of Summer
are falling like ruins
into the wind
into the purity
of the afterlife
into the river
I ferry cross 
for being without reason
for being the payment 
of passage
by identifying
my archetypal adhesions
my cellular shapes 
my gravities
I've soul-ed myself with
for trying
to understand
the mathematical designs
appearing out of the chaos
of endless choices
and spectrum traffic analysis
amid my electron desertions
in all that space
the Universe takes
when it knows
that possibility is
always on time
and is still all
that matters
in the dark
when I wish
for stars
the clouds


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