Tuesday, April 4, 2017

rubor's tale


to move the silver token
splay the sand
break the chalice upon the winter's land
throw the spark to fire
despite the cold thread
that starts
.... to
tingle
and pulse along the central nervous chasm
between the 3rd and 4th vertebrate of mercury & jupiter
with
no
regard
to the relative position of the sun
or the single-arrow-choice of authenticity
but to move anyway
to move into the crash of fracture
where broken glass becomes blood coursing
ripping
tasting of nightshade flight
to become --
to become not right
we lick
we tender
the abrasion to the sound
of
celt drums and saturday morning cartoons
and
our own faint fragile heartbeat
lapsed by the living
except trees .... trees will always bend
as does the sky
and the yellowed photographs found upon old black pages in old albums lost
so
we lick
we tender
the carnival season rolls past; thunder, rain and rubies scattered
parcel paper & tight-ribboned bindings batter
the wad of injury festers
scolded & scalded & scaffolded
to its prime meridian line of less
never enough never good enough never
enough enough
forgotten ....
until
a drop of daring connects
the day 
a hand
lifts & tucks
knows
collects
gathers
straightening is felt
[felted]
smooth roundness of the whole
laid upon the back of the tongue
in waves of honeyed cake and vanilla rum
a bearable light felt
trees bend in sacred reverie
trees always bend 
sky reflects the cyan stirring
clarity is rubbed by that walnut hand to shine a fraction of
pearled opalescence deep deep into the fissure
finding it enough
polishing just enough
returning
to
diamond

3 comments:

  1. Always the polished gem to be found in amongst...Always a pleasure!

    ReplyDelete