fusion
There are undulationsto worry about:
a mother with the world
more than with herself,
a father with himself
and the world of that.
A son in search of
the outside and
falling in response,
a daughter knitting the breath of
their corpses:
not knowing in song.
The weather cannot remain
unattended
to any man who has lived
another afternoon,
bullied the sun to rage and
felt the salt bicker
at arm's distance.
He does have to go home, and
on his way
curse the hasty commuter,
turn the bead
to a full circle, while
reciting his mantra.
the strand thinned ice of city life,
fissured like a smile boned by thorns
made every minute
worth prayer.
.
The bold tip of memories
age like the skies,
never alarming
in its demise
until the ill twig
falls from his mouth.
for today,
His nest his done.
It does not matter
how may evenings
he has met
devoid of eyes
like udders to suckle hope
this sundown has come with
carrying what's left of the light
on her wings.
Sleep is the mother of all evenings:
they hatch in his dreams.
With still a lid open
amid apparitions and
wind-talk.As time
grows thick like an oddly fallen fruit
the self-gnawing dials turn on the pulp
slicing open the putrid reality
between a lapse and an unseeded thought.
Poetry by ben
Read 712 times
Written on 2008-04-04 at 22:51
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