January 1, 2013

bacchanalia urn inside the churn of words...

art by Norman Lindsay ©

what I have worn above the sky

we seek lives outside
of roots and despise
surprises are in
cycles woven deep
enough not to notice them
up close when 
it matters most 
that we seek
flesh and not ghosts
Sabbat roamed mosses
over turning every stone
to find the rivers again

how many bridges
can you limb or lend
when you yourself
don’t always know
how to swim
is it the rhyme
or the reaper
that seeks all
we keep here

I can only say
with the mildest
of assurances
that faith
in something
says you get to stay

do you hear
late at night
telling you
not to forget
names or is life
the sort of game
with which the wheels
are meant to be spun
fast enough for the blurs
to become still images

captured leans
tell me the rain
is plain drinking water
outside of molecular structure
but I know better
as my language
is a poison too
leaving trails
like snails do
with or without shells
along the garden walls
night after night
spelling out we know
why the stars fall


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