Saturday, July 17, 2010

The shape of this poem
Is defined by this page.
Where one ends so goes the other
Hold it in your hand
And feel at its sharp square edge the limits of all things -
Turn the page to end it
And discover another start to it all.

The whole may be narrow
But the chamber it conceals
Filled with light and lightness
And ceaseless sibilant naming,
The eruptive power and silent steady force
Of the eye drawing all things into
That same unending evanescence.

A stone is nothing but a song, a breath,
A memory left too long.
The wind nothing but the weight of the world
In its restless shifting and search for comfort.
And the words just spaces,
The end of things, their becoming
Made known only by their edge
Laid against the emptiness.

A chair depends on everything it is not.
My heart is no different -
Page and pen and illegible yearnings
Line by line
To be found in your hands.

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