It is all before, which is all
That’s left. Thinking hits a wall
When it confronts what’s to come,
Unknown numbers, null in sum.
A chimera slips into the room
Then disappears into its womb.
We knew it by its straightened tail,
But never glimpsed its toothless
Maw — nor heard its lonely wail.
Leave before? No, it is ruthless,
Determined to wait — patient
As a tomb — beckoned and ancient.
What is more banal than a star,
More hackneyed than: “they shine afar?”
Each one is just within our sight,
An ageless remnant of delight. . . .
Uh, I meant to say of old light.
The Milky Way is such a bore;
It proves the old saw that more
Is less, babes in a matron’s dress,
Secrets we never fail to guess.
I stare at them under duress.
But when I look into your eyes,
Their light is as new as sunrise.
As if lethal it’s called a “loon fallout”:
The migrating birds wing so high,
Their feathers grow heavy with ice
(Instinct won’t drive them a warmer route)
And they drop, too encumbered to fly.
Their backs are black, dotted like dice.
They aren’t able to walk on the ground.
Red eyes glare, fish-spearing beaks clack.
Their dusk-born two-note wails don’t sound.
If rescued (which they fight), taken back
To water, they’ll drown in a small pond.
They need a quarter mile and beyond,
Wings thrashing, feet running on water,
Or they’ll stall, and all flying will falter.
We stood on the porch at midday
Under a canopy of leaves
As the light slowly dimmed to grey
And the air dropped ten degrees.
The wind picked up, the only sound —
The birds silenced by some command.
No shadows fell upon the ground.
For now the future had been banned.
No path is inarticulate,
But none reaches a point.
I walk when the day is late
And with silent steps anoint
The dusky air with thought —
Not mine, only that sought
Among the clustered leaves and vine,
Wind-rustled, indecipherable design.
I meet you coming the other way,
With black suit, cane, and bowler hat.
You bow, but have nothing to say,
Because you are neither this nor that.
I walk right through you and smile
At the path beckoning mile upon mile.
Released from the bud’s tiny fist,
Crab petals vaguely exist.
It’s not in them to resist
Their bleaching by the sun
Or the wind that makes them run
In waves along the ground.
After rain, they can be found,
Spinning pink clusters,
In swiftly emptying gutters.
The last, like a dim pulse, flutter.
I turn away from this —
The moment I won’t miss —
Bowed beneath the aegis
Of the blood's next beat,
Which will never repeat.
Every blink is a defeat.
