Words are wings that leave the plummeting
Bird behind them. Marinated in prose and verse,
The poor conversationalist staggered out
To the porch to gaze at the sky, unsteadily.
Stars. Yes. Several of them. Even above the lights
That banished the heavier terrors of night
And for that gift got stereotyped as foul light
Pollution. Even then. Six? Eight? Seven of them?
Something relentlessly human in him wanted
To imagine them as the supernatural of him,
Fires gold burning from their own collapses
A billion miles away from him in bright masses.
Angels, maybe. Demons. Dragons. Stories. Odds.
So many words and numbers to slumber in
Like Odysseus naked under the fallen leaves,
But no one inhuman to play the immortal god.
No comments:
Post a Comment