Clearly, nothing
is sacred. Words are iron,
unfiled. Not the death of irony, but of calm, of kind. Make a fist of
your arthritic hand. Words flame like joints, (un)like the bombing in
Gaza. Four boys captured in a photo running: photo of four bodies on
a beach. A rebel fighter tells his Russian master he shot down the
wrong plane. The loops in my daughter's hair cannot be unwound.
Egrets pace a circuit behind the lawn mower, necks bobbing. The
sharpest mantel is of hurt. Air hammers could break it, but with such
a degraded sound. Look for the geometry of cure, a flour sifter's
stuttering. Draw it on a board; leave it for the next class to
memorize.
--18
July 2014
Note:
"Clearly": Dogen
No comments:
Post a Comment