I’m feeling better.
Two days ago I lay
recuperating in a latent way.
Cranes adorn the rooftops—
twisting in their fetters—
of buildings in the ground and in the grey.
Here is the sting:
In the open arm that reaches
through an open flame to kill the leeches.
All across the sidewalk,
in the sunlight, writhing
like a twig in fire, darkness screeches.
by the hour, sinking
below the waistline of horizon’s god-king.
Every mountain’s peak—
each tree—is kindled
by that lord, unnamed, who waits there, thinking.
Still, beyond his vision,
past its very ends, there croons
the calm, reservèd man who is the moon.
He walks with legs of twilight,
in the night’s derision,
promising the sky he’ll be there soon.
I am chasing pictures
tonight: Pencil renditions of
the world at large against the world above.
There is no road, no
single word, no scripture.
At length, I’ll come to know a place I’ll love.