Thursday, March 19, 2009


Not Sickness stains the brave,
Nor any Dart,
Nor Doubt of Scene to come,
But an adjourning Heart –
Emily Dickinson


Loss of it in life’s the curse –
much worse than corporeal
eradication through a death:

the root of “bless” – to wound,
to cut – but here: to kill
unconsciousness: to make

a breathing apparatus
feel: to have its senses
reel and spill into a vortex:

grand and cruel and undergone:
big words, today, to say
that in the way the rain fell

on my city’s streets
and on the window shields
of taxi cabs deriving wherewithal

from bringing passengers
to yet more episodic life,
little lights – insight – arrived:

contrived as if each droplet
were a whole entire love –
all round, transparent, wet:

and ground into evaporating
spatter – matter – mist. Loves
exist – adjourn – like this.


No comments: