that place where the body goes today I will go to Olmstead’s hills close my mind, ear to earth and listen for the sorrow which is exploding in my ribs, draining in the aqueducts no light comes through the bullet’s hole the sorrow, loud I’ll go to the shell echoing the banjo’s tongue and listen for its hum instead I will seek out sorrow’s whisper while her howls are pandemonious while the body has yet decay no use for map no hand to heal no casserole, no shawl the doctor asks what jaw is this the dentist finds the teeth are worn the listener says enough, enough today, today only grassy cheek will justify what chaos makes of me the tiny child on our commute even noticed the feet were upside down our hair and hats hung as bats to cave my heart leaping in the gullet I will go with doctor’s ear with rubber tubes and metal ducts and listen to the Earth’s conference with what underground is newly planted ghost is ghost is ghost is ghost and man can’t unguillotine his handiwork and hands can be so suggestible can hold such different instrument can cut back quite the foliage but what they cannot do is undone still can’t put life back in the box can’t sew the hand into the hand of executed daughters so the raccoon’s mountain will have to do the deery path the green blemish on the landscape I will have to learn another word some forgotten gibberish some balm protected from the city’s thunderclap I’ll have to speak the noise that funeral lamps tells survivors at the liturgy when flame holds the hand of wick and air when mother finds herself alone alone, alone no color to detract from prism no number more than one to teach when one finds herself teacher no more a closet burdened with smaller shoes an Earth accepting misshapen seed where in a pocket, it would seem that nothing new will grow
Posted on: Mon, 23 Sep 2013 15:15:47 +0000
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