Wednesday, April 1, 2009

beauty? language? threshold?

This stuttering sky strung this day and hour
under which the world conducts itself, oblivion
to its what? Could you describe it? Would
that be meaning added to the world as is?
The iron gate at the park entrance sort of floats.
What color is it? What atomic weight? Where
the brave horses heroically still on hind legs?

Here the noisy avenue is muffled, a surf heard
in semi-swoon. What else? Maybe an idler
left behind catches a cyclist who seems a flash
of bloodied form hurtling through greenish cloud
set down beside the pond with its ordinary frogs.
So much is simple drift. The stone benches
for example are wonderful. But let’s be honest,
impossible to sleep on. Questions appall me.


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