Each moment is a word of glass;
Each life, within a bubble sealed.
No pleasure save what one has said,
No love save self in glass concealed.
How shall we gaze like fiery stars
Upon this gallery of breath?
One says only what one is;
There is no rostrum beyond death.
Speak, then, of dancing particles
Within the curvature of eyes,
And with equations sow the seeds
Upon which data crystallize;
While in the forests lovers gleam
Like whispers on a moonlit stream.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
