If
only every
lip would clap
in tones of intensity,
what
sort of
world of hatred
would we have created?
Dozens
of trembling
lips would speak
of what was coming.
And
what is
the arrival we
seek with eager fingers?
What
gold leafed
book of stories
do we feel growing?
It
must be
the open door
that calls for resistance.
Clearly
one thing
leads to another,
so it always is.
Think
of all
the dropping glass
that opens and closes.
Dozens
of stomping
feet in tune
intone the new song.
We
were singing
in heckled harmony
the eternal jungle tune.
I
tried to
find an answer
to a period unhindered.
I
wanted to
grow fresh arms,
flapping in dry heaves.
Stick
the needle
in the arm
and grow no more.