Saturday, August 23, 2014

The Survivalist Song

The grave survivalist stood
 in the blue meadow
 accosting a fervent mirror.

Evening spread like pollen.
 He saw the entrance to it behind him,
 but there was gauze to stack and count
 before it all disappeared

 in the swirl of magic noise
 wreathing the blank sky,
 or the failure of darkness
 or the teeth of the moon
 or the spigots of eternity
 or the implacable prison
 of urgent flowers.

 His heart had already flown
 into the busy distance.

 7/24/2014