Friday, March 20, 2015

Editio Forceps

I am a turn of art
Turned aside by ghosts
In commemorated
Ruins of Harrisburg,
Utah under red cliffs.
In short, I am shorthand

For nothing, for whispers
By which memories lie
About the present past,
As it were, past present.
I'm not a riddle, no,
Nor kenning, nor gnomic.

I'm a mystery self
In the mysterious
Syntax of self built up
Over generations
Of bodies belonging
To less selfish cultures.

If you can extract me
From this morass of doubt
And hemorrhagic joy,
This beautiful now you
Have in mind a moment,
I'll cry. You'll be the first.

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