5.18.2011

___________________________________________

What time should echo is the thing
that lets there be no mistake in the intention,
as last worst seen, barefoot.
In the woods I left the light to walk its own path.
Like Geronimo, I made no attempt
to count my own footprints. There were none.
If these windows breathed by comparison to
the flower's breath, we would cut ourselves
on the motionless surface of the night.
As a boy, the train tracks were a way
to meditate on the strangeness of youth.
Fastened to their intrigue, somehow
they always revealed new sets of
thought-patterns, as if with a spectral analysis,
the words still, even now, linger like thorns
around my ankles.



No comments:

Post a Comment