during the ink of midwinter, close
to our hearts that falter and carry on,
we are double-edged and angelic,
spying on remote souvenirs born
to the errors of a unison throwing off
its disguise within empty space.
the time of day, with its hard clods, is ready
despite its milliseconds, sleepless and benign,
to keep its ineffable hoax word for word
in suspense, like an ageless worker
who holds his breath beneath his mask.
its essence is ragged. when with its trifles
it chooses to settle the dispassionate illusion
of dark with its dust, again and again
its indistinct yes’s and no’s resemble
the absurd predicament of flesh that is scarred
and lost at the brink of the birth of
still water, beneath a heroic fabric of silence,
and that leaves no trace without sacrifice
despite stretching to the sky.
from “gists of error”
|
