i came across this
blade and strummed
her with a finger and
i watched the dew tumble
to my bare feet waiting
and i thought about
the will of its wanting
and the arch of its back
and the pearl beads
riding on the thin ridge
and of their tumbling down.
it's all about the collapse
into the self and the
phonetics of the helpless
toiling we all make.
how a man once said
that when you die
you return to the memory
you loved most in life
which for me would be -
...
i guess i'm not yet sure
of the edge of that quiet
night or feel its pursuit
others i know have or
are, and i wonder where
they have landed or
where they expect to land
like the beads of dew
shaken suddenly and
violently from their long
highway among highways
by my curious, dumb finger,
how they rode the green blade
like crystal dreams,
then leaped into the air
and came down on
my bare feet waiting,
their coldness a prick
of my sleeping conscience.
i told myself i
better wake up in
case i miss the glass
jewels of this short life
before my blade is
strummed and all my
memories land at the
feet of unyielding stones
my best memory is yet come
but can be seen in the end of a
spyglass and i
won't tell you what
i see, but it
makes me laugh
and weep because
you are there, my beads
of radiant dew,
my loves
