magdalene asking

by rain70

Posted to Poetry on 2003-08-03 11:07:00

Index of marble, dust
On the pages etched
Inummerable, numbers
Become years, years
Become names
Of hammer-strike, tool

That turns us inward
Aging less than ready
For fatigue. (Our rest

Is to pretend swimming
Through the black heart
And mouth-roof of brain
As if dreams were softer stone.)

Why do they hide their women?
What are they protecting from them?

It seems that yesterday has a
Thicker wrist than sparrow
Bone, than stolen song, than
Tomorrow, than responsibility

The ability to respond
To eye carving eye
From between the narrow

Void of veil.