Friday, July 12, 2013

The Island of the Alive

I'm actually not
An especially
Morbid sort of guy.
I'm a wanderer,
Yes, but just because

I'm so well aware
How short my legs are,
How tightly the Earth
Spins on its hot core.
So many constraints

Whisper a secret
Silent as the sound
Of the Earth turning
Underneath clutched feet:.
I can tell you what,

And outlast the truth
By a little bit,
By the promise length
That you won't believe
A word I'm riddling:

If any surprise
Is found in my rounds,
That miracle's real.
We have so little
Space in our mousetraps,

So little real faith
In our cellular
Selves built of more cells,
We feel there's no time.
We panic. We flail.

But the littleness
Of our snug orbits
Holds newness in it,
Always holds newness,
Always remains strange.

That strangeness is change,
That change is our beast
We call the devil
Who is all mercy.
There's nowhere to go.

The universe wheels
Like a donkey cart
Through the dark and straw
Stars darkness squatted.
But somehow, by day,

By night, by seasons
Even ants can count
Out of drudgery,
By waves wearing shore,
It's all, always . . . new.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.