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that ledge of shadows, silhoettes
between cognition and recognition.
In petulance of dust,
in evidence of trust
the world reclaims its own;
One owns the world�s refrain.
this garden knows the snaking bower
silent by the lurking tower
where the dial, where the pool
where gaze distresses each dead jewel
in the ink the jitter of a naked thing
a single promise bound between
a dying mother and her birthing son,
the meager immortality that neither leave;
a second hope, and time�s reprieve!
remissant increments, tolling for themselves
Proven empty, we forget it, then it works, alone, unbothered, it works, it toils for a name by which we forget it further.
A pure thing is cold, when dirtied, dead.
A sure thing is warm, when shaken it burns.
A shadow is something to hold to the ice
To be sure of foot is to know when to die
no normal man.
Beg or preach, clean and scarrow
turn a dime inyour earth-moist hands
and let time choose your dividends...
Pike-point
I stood; stark and still by the bleeding beast.
And watched.
Watched the blood patter down,
nudge into the wakening dust
the weaving shadows plunging and rolling in a sneer of wind.
And while
while the goat�s head cantered and swiveled it bled
and bled over the mourning Greco grass.
like a pike-pail where dribbles
father�s last penning to the mass.
And in the last wink of a sallow sun
as branches drove their host of serpents
over the infinite mop of the ground
the pike point glinted and shook
letting the bone tense
under matted weight;
eyes as they sunk
knowing all beyond and all
near, passing to fragrance
and the drip by memory�s shore. Next Main
Inexplicable is pending
copyright (c) 2006 Nathan Coppedge