Saturday, June 27, 2015

G Minor

Since even smoke has a shadow,
the dreamt step is uphill
and wept drops wear a journal
through stone and silt
to the obliterating ocean,

do not allow the beast to be torn from your eyes,
the terrible thing that protects you from the world,
that screams its own beauty, wants to be loosed
and to loose you.

Do not see the world as it is,
a cataract of prettiness, spiny and raw,
the first lovely and naked pain,
how the sky clouding the far hills
becomes the small brown tail of each rough sparrow.