april 2019

 

                          (i)

 

 

...the earth stretches its nylon mask over my face

and the daily years turn into myths

 

I swing back and forth in my chair

a loadstone, a curve, a torment

 

watching the universe drip its stars

into the eyes of every foetus

 

sealing even the mouths of the dead

with the delusions of the living

 

but, pulling off the mask, I ask

must it always be like this

 

a numb, bewildered ape

drifting through the empty blood of space

 

trailing its umbilical, transcendent mind

across some stupid darkness

 

just how is all this really necessary

these vicissitudes stretched over our faces

 

the earth is a curve

and we are the curve’s foetus

 

so let not the years choose us

let us choose the years...