painting by Agostino Arrivabene ©
|
twisting
the roots of my flesh for candy
there
are invisible armies
tiny denials in the rain
where
has Summer gone again
they
mill about, murmuring
in
the maple leaves
in
the stain of departure
I
fall with them
to
where salvation
only
wants me
to
whore myself
painting
each entry
into
ruins of absolution
I
ask myself
where
do souls go
when
bodies are not
cage
enough
to
hold their light
where does gentle assuredness
silently voice faith in one’s self
where
are the markers
on
the runways
that the closed eyes
of Winter arriving
need
to pillage
my remains with
Autumn
is a clean sweep
an
embrace of distance traversed
with
the cold night ahead
filling
up with my foul bones
feasting
turns toward
the
waiting loam
each
waded tide
is
a fetal curl back
where dreams are born
one
molecule
of surrender
at
a time
I
turn into the deepening rain
and
hoist my umbrella
tasting
the spray of wind
reminding
me
that
gravity is still
the
least understood force
of
the Universe
that
gravity is what I poach shape from
where
I perch myself
on
each tenuous branch I can
bending,
bobbing and weaving
more
for failure than possibility
more for letting go
in the undertows
than
to stand for redemption
in
whatever precious may be left
in
our Goldilocks zone
at the third stone
from the little yellow star
we call the Sun
eventually,
even
a
heart’s luck of ignorance
can
only last so long
as
I truly believe
that
winning
is
anything that
can't
be done
without
losing something
that
eternally thirsts
inside you first
EJR
©
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