Thursday, February 17, 2011

Highly Tutored (Skype Mix)


Always she's falling over inside
never reaching the end, a hammer
smashing thin translucent glass

thin as the whisper, a fragile
promise she walks alone with, knowing
only outside, never feeling in;

never seeing through the surface
of half-hearted smiles and loose
passing nods, silent voices lost,

her eye-acknowledged madness
pleading in a basket by the door
she walks past without mouthing


into the wash of black granite night,
heavy, with only stars for comfort
she rolls back the collar of time

sinks below in whorling form
a soft blown drizzle in cool mist,
springtime sun, the despair running

through her head, some tune
of a funeral song she remembered
singing on that night before he left:

dark gifts, bleak memories, spirit
sleeping, a self-watching eye alloyed

above, holding at bay, truth, angels
forged white hot in the inchoate moment,
nascent, underfed, positioning logical

before us in the dust, our forgotten souls,
soldier-gods in the endless realm
of endless rain, in a time far off;

the mythic sun that once, on the shortest
day, briefly connected to a brow

of kings, the falling star, your cynosure,
annointed one.

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