Immortal
The moon, full
and orange at
the horizon,
out of an east
that has been
misplaced, rises
from a declivity
of pines, and pales
through the garment
of atmosphere
become thin. Maybe
the sky becomes
a trench in which
blood flows
upwards, as an orange
streetcar on
the rails of some
foreign city,
nothing I could have
expected, but
gradually brightening
with advice. If
you don't know in
what ways you've been
dislocated, don't just
stand there and apologize
on a telephone:
Suffer the evolution
and live with
the imagined slights,
looking to find
in the thing no longer
lost, the full
veins on the backs
of the hands of
another's experience.
***
***
No comments:
Post a Comment