1.
… from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, it’s a matter of …
… regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders …
2.
… near the end of his journey the man’s voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast …
… his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...
3.
… even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket …
… ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...
======================================
from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented
©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved
first published in Record Magazine
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 3:04 PM UTC
1.
… from now on, a reshuffling of diction,
word-acrobatics, perspectives gleaming
with thought: somebody built an orange tree
against the other things around it, to devour
boiled eggs in the porcelain hand of a plate,
the convulsions of the world can only go
a short length, it’s a matter of …
… regression, like tumbling downstream
over the backs of boulders …
2.
… near the end of his journey the man’s voice,
as dull as ashes, a cracked seed ready to burst,
declining through the dark, a short distance
to a wintry end: traveling alone to the bottom,
sound of his dusty age drawing in the earth
lying at the edge of bones: today, the light,
tomorrow the ledge: think lightning fast …
… his affliction is not pain but death: cold
at his feet, like frail children ...
3.
… even in the icy spring of March, your eyes
were the stars melting lingering snow: we lay
buried in the warm blood of naked bodies, like
refugees in a new land, and the wind that did
not reach us, and the ice that could not find us:
outside, the silent streets could hear thunder
beneath our blanket …
… ask me where she is, the one who ignored
my heart, who was gone by summer ...
======================================
from my unpublished manuscript: Fragmented
©dah / dahlusion 2019 all rights reserved
first published in Record Magazine
Request permission to use this poem