No mixed coral nor glass
echoes etched into cold blood
hieroglyphs
holds in its prism
no hope today
that blur of blue;
an explosion of swallows
--the mistranslation
of our bodies, skeletal fortresses
of a gray ambergris
calcified deep in
the snow--
these personal hazards
cling to the
hypothermic belly
so sweetly
in a necessitous grasp
of poverty
3 comments:
stunning
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Thanks Ted! Haven't heard from you in a long time. May all be well :-)
There's no echo from coral and glass buried far under the cold blood of the darkness that undergirds the path.
The blue of the prism can't be seen there. One sees only a different blue,
the explosion of blue in the yellow that blares from the dark hole of the shed's door,
the dark door than sends prismatic light and all light back along the length of the trail like a blood dew that clusters in places as if it were blood snow.
The gray in the shed's dark, in the path's dark, flows easily up into the skeletons of our bodies; skeletons others think are fortresses.
No one walking down the path thinks such things. He won't even think of poverty until the time when he finally tires of the the sight of the shed and steps off the path. But he won't think of the body's response to pain. In his sudden lack of light we will, mainly, be nothing more than moody.
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