Ric Carfagna

from Symphony No. 11
          (the inner recesses)

80

Passing from here
“they speak of the transient”
as if possessed
by an unnamed divinity 
heard within
the dull hum
of machine turbines
empty alleyways
crushed beer cans 
cardboard boxes
and broken windows
where a point of entry
was not foretold
and what is not seen
is part of the landscape 
receding
at the graying edge
of the sky’s expanse

...

“and we write in shadows” 
of a frame inside
a frame inside
a past tense
returning
to a field
where orchids bloom
and blood has flowed 
where nomadic ghosts 
wander forest depths 
haunting echoes
of mythic writ
which holds the heart
in bondage
and shackles the flesh
to fear

...

passing from here
“they speak of transience...

***

81

And a season ends 
in a lag of frost
to fill a valley 
darkness absorbs 
the infinity
of mathematical equations 
a deity held
at arm’s length
deaf to the silent
fate of graves
tempered by wind
above a field of weeds 
and contrails cross the sky 
without measure
to observe or
to follow a path
on a common landscape 
fleshed out

in angular ante-light 
where there is no need

to question faces
drained of emotion 
reflected in drops of rain 
falling to a porous ground

***
***