Saturday, February 1, 2020

Nothing Comes to Mind

“Still the birds were bawling through the mists / Terrible, invisible / A million small evangelists”

Are we law-like or fact-like?
I think we are law-like facts,
Stuck with the fact of laws.

Sun sets behind indifferent
Roofs jutting chins at the air.
It is a terrible thing

In the old way, the awful,
Awesome, terrific, sublime
Way, to be only meanings,

To be the sole survivors
Of this tournament thus far
To get by by lies and laws.

I listen to everything,
Everything else inhuman,
And I hear nothing, singing.

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