449
all
things considered
every painting a memory map
something to mourn in each turn of the track
an ear to the silence
and hear the world spin
under the paint
some old civilization
the ants are still breathing down there
they bear the truth away on their backs
it's for all time gone
but surely reborn with the stroke of a brush?
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteevery poem
old paint
the ants
not sure if the truth comes back
ReplyDelete
DeleteDo you always get what you want?
You will never get your own true love.
It's the Law of Thirds. The third one out
Third smartest, third most likely to succeed
She was your third choice, and you were hers
(Sorry, it's the Law.) And time starts to die
At the third stroke, the echo by the third second
The history of the book in the third chapter
Her interminable dream by the third yawn
Yours too. (That's the Law, you know
It's where sound goes when it's done.)
This poem will be gone the third time
You happen to look for it. So will you.
I found it the third time I stopped looking.