Wednesday, July 9, 2008

With This Chest Full Of Feathers How Can I Possibly Draw the Moon?

Alive at the end of the world
Perhaps a blessing, but mostly
A moment so perfect that I can barely breathe

An imprecise lightness, but with no witness
An argument with the sky, maybe.
Surplus is no longer a benefit, abundance is shed
For fallibility
and the god of certainty is finally
Shown to be a goofy charlatan,
A charmless hoaxster with no real power here.

At the end of the world
Mister Death arrives in an Oldsmobile
His wife nattering at his side.
He takes a walk in the evening around the neighborhood ,
without her,
So he can sneak a cigarette or two,
And he comes in, smelling of tobacco which
She takes for brimstone- the tool of his trade.
His secret is safe.

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