The heart, first to depart,
is soon followed
by the other parts,
falling, as will being,
through the many
fractured distractions.
The stone mouth idles.
The pining lover,
whose longing was misplaced,
was angry
even as a child.
Of what could he repent?
The different days are all
a trial of moods.
Embers will be sifted
behind the eyes,
winds kindled in the ribs.
Please, may this be so.
May we not break
at the sharp point
or impede
the wheeled vehicle
our sleep has balanced.
Through inevitable
refinement of love,
may we frame fragments
in the generous
number of the house.
Chico,
ReplyDeleteI really like this poem. Can't exactly say why, but just having read a lot of your work over the years, this seems like an original voice. Thanks.