A Public Sphere for Poetry, Nature, and Politics
Revisionist spring. It is cold and authorities lie within days.
Do we need to talk of death, remind them of it,
create little machines of death to float down their streams and in their baths?
This is the first day.
Our children are wearing our fathers’ and mothers’ clothes.
It is strange how those who believe in peace
wear ironic uniforms, faded camouflage, late winter green.
Limbs complain like bedsprings,
but birds landing is cushioned.
Coffee sediment of earth is stirred up.
You get a face full of leaves.
Though there is nothing to it,
everything is evening.
Perfume is narrowed down,
too much, charged with the past.
Kissing is a mouth full of dying, seems
right, I’ll have to tell her later.
I am weeping in dark trees.
For the dark trees make a weeping sound. I am the chewed parts of worm the fat Buddha feeds me.
That’s the knock on the soul.
For we cannot have the morning light.
I am certain I can locate myself among objects if I let myself.
That’s your move? For I am lost in the trees. Shuffling and snorting of the Minotaur.
No birds, I notice.
Copyright 2015 Leonard Gontarek