Kind Cuts The walk To the jetty Leaves behind this And every door, Never reaching The raucous sea— More than any Set of footsteps Yet less than an Hour’s wedge splayed on A pie-faced clock Will take. Countless blades divide our houses Receding across March lawns. Two sparrows on a wire plot Fat points with icy blue Light years squeezed between. But each dearth is matched by bounty: Ribs of freshly plowed earth Awaiting fleshy ears and sheaves, Or tree legions exploding slowly from A prickly pinecone grenade. Real things sliced at their joints Grow dense, continuous, immense. The tomb Though quieter Than all sleeping Has its sly cracks Blowing ages Of whistling air, Enough to spawn A hurricane. At the world’s edge A ship fills white Lungs to sail in Stillness.
Posted on: Sun, 14 Jul 2013 04:54:27 +0000
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