Monday, December 20, 2010
I looked down and the earth was sharp
Of course, this place I come to, placed perfect on the point of some dull knife, is thin and / tired. Of course, no one has ever escaped. I was just free, I was just / doing something. But there is nothing / to be done, here, but keep doing. Please / I am in a sea of need, necessity like little tongues of flame that like my taste. I begin to forget. The rider on the white horse. I begin to wander from waiting on hero, husband, savior, my everything in a bloodied robe riding victory’s hooves hard down on cowering death. / I don’t want to forget. Everything / contained in a thin skin and me / riding the knife come down too soon: / I don’t want to, don’t let me / let go of the blade, of the jagged-tooth press, of remembering red grapes / and whining’s fruitless hope.