Silence will bring the cusp of peace to
your door do as you will with the
knob of night Silence will shriek the
film of war through your eyes blink
as you will as time wanders Silence will
throb the sob of earth at your chest
sing as you will, as you dream, as you nest.
this poem will swim in beauty
for it knows the rock that locked
your breath - and mine - for
longer than the hand that stayed
in wretched form the swamp
that homed the song that
longed for more longer than the
field of vows that strung your
laugh with mine and shed the
longest tear in missing, in passing
in warming the word, in warning
the word this poem will swim in
beauty -
And here is the data tangent to this poem.
Summers are no longer stretchable
the cars get in the way traffic
is to climate as the muse's reluc-
tance is to song
Nothing in the forest beckons birds
to muse on the flitness of
purpose wormholes to
stretchable summers -
Like my last post, this poem is again a tangential companion to another data post of mine, residing elsewhere.
It might not be the job of poems to say what can be said better using other forms of saymanship. But if poems float in an unconnected ether for very long, Wakan Tanka’s consternation notches up, and she speed dials Laozi asking him to summon up a new manuscript now that the gatekeepers have changed: something relevant to what Rita Laura Segato aptly calls the apocalyptic phase of capital. It’s up to Laozi then to cough up a new song which might, at first glance, not look like a song at all.
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 