Striations
There are striations
in my heart, so deep,
a lizard could lie there,
unseen, and wait
for tomorrow’s sun.
A knot of
sorrow in daylight’s throat;
the heart a great stone
cast in placid water,
each ripple
knitted to its mate.
Timeless,
the worm at the apple’s core
waiting for its world to end.
Seculae seculorum:
the centuries
rushing headlong.
Matins:
wide-eyed
this owl hooting
in the face of day.
Somewhere,
I remember
a table spread for two.
Breakfast.
An open door.
“Where are you going, dear?”
Something bright has fled the world.
The sun unfurls shadows.
The blood whirls stars
around the body.
“It has gone.” she said. “The magic.
I no longer tremble at your touch.”
You can drown now
in this liquid
silence.
Or you can rage against this slow snow
whitening the dark space
where yesterday
you placed your friend.
The silver birch wades
at dawn’s bright edge.
Somewhere,
sunshine will break
a delphinium
into blossom.
Tight lips.
A blaze of anger.
A challenge spat
in the wind’s face.
High-pitched
the rabbit’s grief
in its silver snare.
The midnight moon
deep in a trance.
If only I could kick away
this death’s head,
this sow’s bladder.
Full moon
drifting
high in a cloudless sky.
A Golden Oldie
Click on this link for the original post
rogermoorepoet 