Sunday, August 5, 2012
High crescent moon a chalice
so shallow a cup all my days could spill from it.
If the world tips, I will plant my feet for its sake.
Light and paint are opposites. For light
white is all colors, black only absence. How many blacks
in this black paint?
The heart has its reasons. The reason is the heat,
Blaise. For instance, I am on fire. I reason it's love
denied, a bonfire, a good fire. Très bon.
Throw on the logs of my life.
Soul is a beast, a
marten or tortoise,
Thought was a dream the
Sleep is for credit. We're auditing the rain,
every impact on the roof a note we have to take
somewhere in our bodies.
To be Borges then, chalice at the back
of each blind eye, two moons,
letting them fill.
Courage: the heart times time.
Reason: a program
Spring: a recoil, a coil, a
Helix: one body climbing a staircase
Matter: is dark, or light, or
Weightless: the thing that escapes when the earth lets go
Frogs shrill as April high in the trees.
Soon the sky will fall and I will be here to catch it.