Living and dying are the same
And so are singing and lying.
When things are going well, one works.
The other works when we're crying.
I knew a man who only sang
Songs for singing inside the head,
Music you'd have to imagine
Made of thoughts and hesitations.
He parked his car beside a bridge
In the middle of the mountains
Where he could listen with no one
There to have to listen to him.
He plaited the creek with phrases
He'd learned and feathered both with webs
Of recollections, fossil teeth
From beneath his own foundations,
His humming certainty what was,
That is, the creek, the breeze, the trees,
The road, the bridge, the rusted trucks,
Remained impossibly only.
No comments:
Post a Comment