|
Fred |
for I cannot remain here for long, with you.
The last snatches of the roaring autumn orchestra
are echoing now, but they are now smeared over with silence
and shot through with frost. You can hold them
in the hollows of your palms like an amulet,
but only for a time, for a spell, for almost long enough.
Already we are breaking like cracked slate,
a ship collapsing in a becalmed harbor, throwing itself on the shoals.
Already the sky carries its crucibles of winter and distance.
There is no cure for this inevitability, not for this
which is its own harbinger. I cannot feel the heat
leaving the tips of my fingers, I cannot even imagine
what it was like to be here. Oh my god do not remember
me like this, do not remember me crumbling and fading,
these moments are sacred but they are not precious
to me. They are betraying me, they are swathing me
with truth. The moments between breaths are woven
over with concrete and tar. Forget.
I cannot feel your fingers leaving my palm.
Labels: Fred
ARCHIVES
July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009
July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009
AUTHORS
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
||