Monday, November 22

was going somewhere with this

we're as new on this surface
as frost on some november window,
strange as well as lost to this territory
the horizons of years and
long slow motions we can just now begin to see
and deep enough in time, there's no terrible
permanence to the things we lay down
our ink, our brick and steel,
our tracks and furrows, grooves and channels
our ways and means becoming
(the wreckage of our bodies
and so much pain besides):
silence after a while.

tags: topics/poem

p1k3 / 2004 / 11 / 22