Thursday, October 9, 2014

Departed Wind


What is this quiet moon
that formed the night?
The honored line finds its
way to the sea,
a gift of space, the sun departed all
are in passing;
a departure of the wind.


Irrational holiness
holy of holies
our trousers possessed by unsubstantial
inertia- Onan the departed!
but what of the burnt-smell warmth of
your mourning bed?  Lost in
The wilderness of a stained mattress
and uniquely folded forces of space-time?
We take the perilous journey to invisibility
and back again traveling through
those irreversible echoes:


Retreat, Moses! with those
temporary impressions of imperfection
can Armageddon be so brief, so unforeseen?
Can you call forth the possible fathers
made of material failure?
Only later would you accelerate
toward some silent atonement.
Only later comprehend the artificial light
of god.