The hand is a bird stretches
past a dozen blocks of memory
every bold one of them a prison
all part of a curled collection.
My friend had written a poem
about the skin of days. There is
nothing that we can't outlive
and no bitterness we won't eat.
A chipped cup sits upon a rock.
No need to know whether the sea
crashes or sunshine is in the hills
on this other side of knowingness.
But the husbandry of our souls.
It’s not easy listening to silence
to the cant of the tip of the slip
the wavering moment of it.
An old book lies upon the shelf
its eyes closed against the sun.
A snake bathes against the rock
filling up, emptying cold blood.
I love this unseen (un-scene) thanks Rob. Vast yet you held me here in the chipped cup.
ReplyDeleteThanks for listening, mate. I had a bit of trouble holding it myself.
Deletenice one, Rob. I love, love the last stanza!
ReplyDeleteDear Efi, So kind. It was racing to the end.
DeleteThank you, dear Anna. 'Nice' used to mean fine, then it meant bad - now I hope it means OK! :)
ReplyDelete