two (or one, untitled)

by rain70

Posted to Poetry on 2003-06-11 06:46:00

(a note)

Incomplete as I can considering what you’ve done,
The last of a rock, a splitting headache,
Pregnable fragments, the delicate darkness
Of a cricket behind a stone.

The graveyard is a secret balcony, the truth
Strains with ransom, it’s awkward to admit
The years without gold were busy, yet
I call it beauty, lingering after the suicide

Of light. I call it religion, a black
Ring somehow breaking into letters
Shallow now looted into slender summons
And I dare not breathe as the pride is driven

From the echo.

.


compensation (the hovering)

New marble, the heavy rose of bed.
Now the small heaven alert to translation
Breaks open like the wild ghost
That wants to get warm

Never minding the praying
Like fiddling with a notebook after death.
After death it would be good to laugh
To read and learn of lungs’ delight

In the lovely stone.