February 3, 2016

the trailing train élan of Breo-Saighit



the trailing train élan of Breo-Saighit

she makes dandelion wine
she jars everything she finds 
what in you 
that can be 
purposed or pleasured 
for what ails 
the something missing
in someone else 
like you or me

each year when there's a little more dusk
to dawn at last she un-casks what has stayed ripe...

when remembering, who is the orbit 
and who might be the pane
we bring to renew the view we've mastered 
returning so many more times as rain...

are we only lending who we will want to be
interest in banking evening's tombstone society
though names be labels sometimes too 
here they're hand written pieced with you 
so in essence, potential is scent derived finer points 
the why, memory sells service rendered kinetic joints...

I suppose one never asks this collector 
what originally sent her, assured to spy
to want to know and sense a future purified 
what people, for instance, would come for, to pay and play to be 
what this once was, perhaps, when pickled into eternity...

air tight masons, wishes vicious and viscous 
in a pantry room with wombs, brooms 
and the tiny knives that flowers are 
accompanying, courted larks...

I tear myself apart
rubbing lamps to argue 
that with night
being a narrator guide
for my own soul 
will everyone, then 
understand me 
when I was whole...

will they remember songs
they say they've never 
learned before
will they say words 
out loud like poets do
taking to a knife's edge
in the language of rivers...

do we mostly howl 
at the precipice of Spring 
take to seeding the air
with scented expressions
like horny poets do
like jacks in the boxes 
and jills on the hills
are names irrelevant
will everyone get the picture
will everyone be the poem
will everyone be inside  
bowsprit and ride 
knowing nadir-apex-journey-arcs
their every emotion's coal to diamond story...

what in us, has to be told
in a stain of glass
or verbs affixed to nouns
and the past...?

you said to me, kneel
and I thought I was praying
you told me to starve hunger
when I really wanted to eat
to tremble my focus
to stretch slowly
to move with grace
to be mindful
of place and 
any attachment
to permanence...

to not expect
a masterpiece
overnight
though as we know
sometimes stars
release their dead
spectacularly...

EJR © 

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