Kit Kelen #1154 - opus

1154

opus

for ataraxia

was there ever even

cutting, seed, stock of root

some foreign spore

an unknown word

mere sound or other image

?

was there?

hammered out the thing

and hung it for a breeze too

great taming and trim

and major with the saws

myself I was a whistled tune

swerved

had to be blank to it and dig

an arrow meant one way or both

I was the hermit of kingdom – listing

those daughters dancing up a mountain

trained it on these wires and lines

mad wheelbarrow dash, whose rescue?

with all this armoury

despite because

and best intent

most of a moon still riding on this

in the roundness of a night, the day

noticed the light come through  

I brought soil from the pile

still the metaphor extended

someone must have sung me so

for nurture

whisper it

dissolve

there I was

weeding the poem

mulching the poem

turning it into compost again

month of Sundays there

blue moon too once in

tried to stare the thing away

it was a bird who spoke

certain words commanding

there were tractor times

and diabolical machinery

in the edges

all turns of earth were mine

where they drink

and in a pond, reflections

deep down as your sky will go

by whim won

my back into it

so shone

the creek was full of rhymes

all thanks I am

and no one for

in my own vanishing

a garden

still the words get away