And why not sing? And why not burn a track
from the tinder of the branch to the furnace of noon?
The maw of that which will devour us all,
that gapes beyond apartments and old strip malls;
the rusted iron gates over which the neighbor’s ivy creeps,
unpeopled mansions built
on mountaintops exposed, tracts of sand
over which armies of boots grind children’s bones
to dust— And why not empty
all the vessels of the throat,
the glittering receptacles of blood;
and why not break
the hundred glasses in the room
with the sharpest facets of that joy,
that long-lost twin of sorrow?
Hurry through one more refrain, as if it were
the thread in the labyrinth that could save you.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Memory: A Tonic
- Orality: Little Treatise
- Dearest one, I am Prince Ashily Quatama
- Every Death
- There are words and there are words:
- Little Voyage
- Atlantis Rising
- In the Ablative
- The wren in the lilac cycles through its songs at breakneck speed—
- If the future is a bird headed for a summit too far away to tell:
- Tending Fire