jueves, 28 de junio de 2012

spring: a poem about living instead of merely denying death

Our discontent had run off
and these days were an aimless fire.
Memory barely matter(ed). For 
glory now
understood: history was long

This is the wild,
we howled.
This is the wild,
we denied.

Weary alas, obliged
to learn,
how brief
incidental gestures, driven
by unassuming grace would
move mountains
sooner than all
the marching, shouting, shooting
and following. For this
was spring. And
disbelief the crowning jewel of radiant minds:
a rose-petaled tattoo,
into that supple breast we
call reality.

This is the wild,
we cried.
This is the wild,
we knew.

(photos: Peter Garfield, Mobile homes)

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