Standing
here at the edge,
the
wind throwing grains of sand into my flesh
as
if I am the vacant space the universe
explodes
upon,
the
sound of the ocean,
unending
howl of creation
as
land is torn, broken down,
reformed
in places unseen.
I
remember when I was sixteen,
innocent
except in the mastery of the pain
that
sixteen years had yielded,
beauty
seen
as
if from behind a window;
always
there and not held,
touched
but swift to fade,
like
a snowflake beneath the heat
of
skin and desire.
The
water burying my feet in homage
to
time’s unending carving of the tomb
for
flesh and bone to be hollowed out and found
in
some distant time, perhaps then lifted
to
some stranger’s lips, lung-wind
blown
to make music of all that I was once
and
has been forgotten.
Life
— the ocean of individual droplets,
useless
unless considered
as
a single form coming and going,
changing
the world, reorganising it,
breaking
it, and — if wisdom wins —
repairing
ourselves and the destruction
we
bring for some future generation
of
bone blowers, their hands, each of five digits,
cradling
all that we have held.
No comments:
Post a Comment