Bag of Tangibles
The
very first inconsistent
soul.
A
frozen origin.
Absolutely
the idea of
the worm.
Don’t
cares with their
profession of
activity.
A
tube that squeezes
out eyebrows
for the heads.
Not
eyebrows – or
heads.
The
sway-point between
survival and
destruction.
Always
imperfect fit
of mood.
Unrecognized
things noticed
or not.
Properties
and combinations
thereof.
Loss
that matches
everything.
Shadow
and concepts
between rocks.
Support
of the end.
The
last complete
thought if of
incompletion.
Holes.
Whatever
has no idea
of itself.
For
the rest only
their ideas.
Metal-blue
legs on the petal-edge
parked,
ready to siphon pollen
from
the bowser.
DonÕt
you care about your
hit-and-run?
The
pulsing heart you left
on my cheek
that
stings my eyes as if
from fumes?
I
was digging a hole
to
plant another seed in
the black
and
blacker earth
while
dreaming of its flower
Ð
more
earthÕs or seedÕs? Ð
when
you collided with my
dream.
What
is chained to survival
is dead
said
Rilke and I understood
that time brings birth
and
the mystery is this
as
death is what we know.
You
waggled off with sunlightÕs
glint
on
your bonnet and no knowledge
of my pain
while
I knelt in the garden
with realityÕs words
quivering
upon my lips.
Thankyou,
for these are my own
tears,
provoked
by one who would not
provoke,
finally
tasted with the purity
in them
of
knowledge which teaches
no
lesson.