Sunday, February 18, 2007

a lament, no. 2

these old streets are flowing by me
mad with undulations
going crossed, going into places
that ought to be hidden
i can't see the end and i've
forgotten all beginnings
oh, these old streets

and walls of brick
of mad plastering
confusing in their random colors
have settled everywhere
some with holes and doors
and windows
looking at me, probably
concealing
places watchers can breathe
slowly, carefully
sharp-eyed and remembering
armed with papers, taking
photos
every where

it's a proper time for secrets
a time for wards and charms
proper magicks
all the things that old men know
if they would only say
but their very ancientness
faces falling within hard creases
cloud the memories i need
i don't fear the witches
any longer

i've tossed my shoes into a bin
marked and left unaware
ready to capture any thing
so my feet can feel the earth
speak to the stones and dust
my toes can learn the language
of winter airs
spring grumbling
any spells dropped and eager
to bewilder
i feel that i can make my peace
with sorcerers

some one has cracked stones
possibly killed them
to bring them here
pieces are piled, jumbled
mortared
so that the sun must constantly
move
to bring some small light
to ground
it looks so weary
left with so little
for the moon

these old streets are wrapping
heavy gray serpents that torture
my eyes
somewhere below them shrieks
a monotone
dredged and stripped of color
no one could sleep under this weight
at least it strips the dreaming
away
some small comfort
isn't it
?

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