Sunday, November 25, 2012

John C. Goodman

The light is ordinary

on an ordinary day
          – our greatest tragedies rouse nothing more than a shrug
          – such ordinary misfortunes
          – mere heart-rendings

So much is contained in a moment
a passing of music, the scent of cinnamon and cloves,
a shadow across a table, the soft catch of a closing door

An ordinary moment, indistinguishable from a wind torn wisp of cloud

It’s the silence that is so big
          swallowing everything
          gulping down the light
          erasing the ordinary footfalls on the blue and white tiles of the ordinary floor
                that lead to the closing of the ordinary door


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