such darkness is another fleeting thing
and so is the bird of your
arrival, mine windows receiving bird-song,
elegiac – pining against perennial trees,
sounds of well-put strikes bringing back
to a time not mine but hastily endure,
and light is but another figure posing for itself,
a backlash of photographs again not
mine but this time masterfully endure
all that is mine, being
still and keeping what
the silence holds with its tumultuous hands,
a song once my roof-beams heard but
refused to declare: a fugitive frisked out of
the nooks of depthless sleep is I, inspected
by the wide-eyed gazebo of morning, and a specter
whose name I cannot recall, completing this brokenness.
I am neither poet
nor bard, stripped of words
and I, past everything else that makes sweet music,
possess no mandolin.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
such darkness is another fleeting thing
and so is the bird of your
arrival, mine windows receiving bird-song,
elegiac – pining against perennial trees,
sounds of well-put strikes bringing back
to a time not mine but hastily endure,
and light is but another figure posing for itself,
a backlash of photographs again not
mine but this time masterfully endure
all that is mine, being
still and keeping what
the silence holds with its tumultuous hands,
a song once my roof-beams heard but
refused to declare: a fugitive frisked out of
the nooks of depthless sleep is I, inspected
by the wide-eyed gazebo of morning, and a specter
whose name I cannot recall, completing this brokenness.
I am neither poet
nor bard, stripped of words
and I, past everything else that makes sweet music,
possess no mandolin.
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