SIR HERDERP PRESIDERP SDO
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The time by which the candle coughs a feeble flame
That is your time. The poem waxes into tears.
A mottled face lapses into sleep, almost
An eternity embodied in the hollowed cheeks
And lips drawn inward memorize a kiss
Which faltered on a rainy night.
Eyes so tired and deep know not the frosted glass
Dividing day from night. The book says,
Life is weak, simply a streak
Of thin smoke rising from an old man's pipe
And the whisper of a leaf.
The morning moves block by block.
You will not see and mark the passage
Of rustling wings breaking into flight
Nor hear the little children who frolic
Down the street, mocking strangers whose eyes
Indiscreet, relate a thought to the clothesline
Running from your windows to the other flat.
Nobody knows what passes here. A rude world
In itself a fountain of bare enchantments:
Naiad forms that toss a ball of dust
Out of a dark corner. While fawns with a furry feet
Listen to wondrous tales told by a wall clock.
And music steaming from a coffee pot
Sings through the empty bottle row by row
While spiders untangle the hours bit by bit
Till the enchanting motion is complete
And the poem waxes into tears.
There is no green sheet beneath that face
So still in sleep. The flesh is no excuse
To wrap the bones with false caress. Even
A ball of fire smolders into dust, fertile dust
Which nurtures the potential seed, the potential
Tree. When your world disintegrates
Only a carcass stays, a human mass
With neither art nor wit to contend with
While the spheres revolve undisturbed
Stirring the street into consciousness or sleep
As the outer world that you despise, breathes.
And the Earth you left behind
For claws to tear apart, takes you
Foe or not, fettered or unbound.
Poets are sprung from the ground
Clutching a fistful of dust
As they rush for a piece of sky
To write the final poem.
That is your time. The poem waxes into tears.
A mottled face lapses into sleep, almost
An eternity embodied in the hollowed cheeks
And lips drawn inward memorize a kiss
Which faltered on a rainy night.
Eyes so tired and deep know not the frosted glass
Dividing day from night. The book says,
Life is weak, simply a streak
Of thin smoke rising from an old man's pipe
And the whisper of a leaf.
The morning moves block by block.
You will not see and mark the passage
Of rustling wings breaking into flight
Nor hear the little children who frolic
Down the street, mocking strangers whose eyes
Indiscreet, relate a thought to the clothesline
Running from your windows to the other flat.
Nobody knows what passes here. A rude world
In itself a fountain of bare enchantments:
Naiad forms that toss a ball of dust
Out of a dark corner. While fawns with a furry feet
Listen to wondrous tales told by a wall clock.
And music steaming from a coffee pot
Sings through the empty bottle row by row
While spiders untangle the hours bit by bit
Till the enchanting motion is complete
And the poem waxes into tears.
There is no green sheet beneath that face
So still in sleep. The flesh is no excuse
To wrap the bones with false caress. Even
A ball of fire smolders into dust, fertile dust
Which nurtures the potential seed, the potential
Tree. When your world disintegrates
Only a carcass stays, a human mass
With neither art nor wit to contend with
While the spheres revolve undisturbed
Stirring the street into consciousness or sleep
As the outer world that you despise, breathes.
And the Earth you left behind
For claws to tear apart, takes you
Foe or not, fettered or unbound.
Poets are sprung from the ground
Clutching a fistful of dust
As they rush for a piece of sky
To write the final poem.
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