Something small and winged outside my window sings
To a new day? To invite it's kind in chorus?
It does and that's enough
An Old Sun arises to a fresh born day
Not yet birthed but burgeoning
A thousand times a thousand
Indian paint brush reds come back to me
From the pipe racks and sky reaching cranes
These made things but also growing
Ideas given structure by flesh.
There, off a mile or so
Boot heavied feet clump
Horns warn, diesels clamour to motion
Rattling about, a handful of rocks in a Campbell's can
Once again to bring into being so much intent.
And Beauty doesn't mind
Isn't such a fragile thing
That the hiccups and yawns of all our
Micey thoughts should scare it off
It's Here.
Light upon Light upon every angle
Something small and winged outside my window sings
It does and that's enough.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
All of us
in various stages of dying and and being born
The mom yet to be,
a four month swell behind her shirt
Dad of 2, trailing behind
tiredness and joy mixed in his eyes.
Girls wrapped in on one another
knots of noise. Giggles and insecurity
Men put together
like showrooms from Ikea
Efficacious, nothing warm like home.
Wives, squint nosed
Clack snap of boots hard against
cultured marble
faces of fluorescent light
Each one placed in retail
somnolence
drug forward in a steady gait
toward that something
We each to his own way
in this place of quick promise
I look to see with only
ambiguity looking back
The old,
moss sitting on hard booth seats
as if being near life
will lead them back to life again
Hats and twill
scarves and purple. Semblance
of then and not again
Then me
a smooth stone washed over
by this flow of person-hood
Unseen but shaped by every current
bearing witness
cocooned in the falsehood of
objectivity.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC