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Submitted by lbangs on Sat, 07/19/2003 - 02:17
Tags:
- I
- Now the wilted wind wanders about
- The blackened bones
- That once bore currents of blood,
- Gusts of combusting air.
- I was folded into her hatbox
- And carried unto her bed
- Tucked under her moist armpit.
- I still smell the fermenting saline,
- And I can still feel the warmth,
- The rising heat.
- Without direction
- Heat convects all about,
- And every engine wanes
- To a cold crank
- And wheeze.
- II
- These last chalky stones yet to fall
- Tattoo the outline of Our Lady
- Into the carbonflesh of the earth.
- Father's face never burned red.
- Father would sing songs
- Whose rhythms were not heard before.
- Swelling vowels soared to soft, definite endings
- That a flickering flame might promise
- But the lusting fires never provide.
- Those hymns never existed prior to his time,
- And the echoes convected all about...
- This savor surely only sickens
- And sickens only me.
- III
- A lost lyric I once wrote still haunts me;
- I remember sense
- But only shards of sound.
- I will find no peace on this silent hill.
- IV
- All that finally falls into small piles of ashes
- Grows so large in our minds.
- I could draw a picture of this town,
- But never a map.
- They might build tents or fences here,
- But nothing more.
- The dawn air is cold,
- And the rising wind stings my eyes with soot.
- I've no idea how far it is
- Until the next city.
- 4/6/03
