The revolutions are now in tandem
with hoary silences that greet
the tired onlooker for whom history is
always wiser than self, not withstanding
the ‘you knows’ and the obvious twists
in the plot-line.
The blood which inks the plot-line &
the firmaments which guard the signposts
suggest a lingering absence which hints
of the shell – happenings at a distance.
The grasshopper bleeds insanity on the carpet, and as it
stays the call of its execution, the pause asserts and there an abundance of nothing
for that slice of time that is enough for stay of madness.
That surfeit of grasshopperness is always on call ready
to bleed as insanely on the carpet as on the floor just cleaned in anticipation of guests.
It will not die, and it will not be wished away, this grasshopper.
the pretending of the tide, the undulation of it and then
the reaching out of the pretending of
the turning back, the tide
is ready, was ready to return now