Friday, April 06, 2007


The lights of heaven keep tending to me
In bitter daydreaming with the smoothness of bread
I sooth myself from the images of an older life
Replacing all grief with an ascend to the lyre
Unable to carve myself out of the stone
Swindling with the story-telling of the sun
Heading in the morning to my eternal home
But the afternoon sails adrift and soaks me in
When I awake, my night-dreaming bewails me
With sharp-edged knives, hammering my flesh
With fresh but ancient faces, my past is but a leaf
And in these dreams I read open books
That anticipate my thoughts with the mist of desire
I am dead then, drunk from so much life
So that my blood turns into notes, I can't read them
I sift through the clouds and land again in my body
Bereft of nudity, clothed in the thickest veil of hay
My hands are cords, older than Eros, plowmen
I rain with them through cobblestone alleys
We're not friends, but warriors, fellowmen
From a bad race, an irretrieveable point of departure
Feeding from mendacity, fearing our dreams
As he runs after me in the cold image, with smiles
He navigates, but deserts me in the morning, in my tent
I can dwell only in this eternity, not knowing myself
Not anchoring anwhere, without a branchtree
Without an intimate correspondant, like the sea
Motioning through silver boats, never arriving
Expecting Odysseus every hour of the day, jealous
Oddly resigned, while smaller rivers wash in delight
The feet of their belovedmost maidens, take
Compassion in their mellow notes, tend them with a
Swift breeze between the trees and the

No comments: