magdalene asking
Posted to Poetry
by rain70 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.
