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Words
tumbling up,
paper scraps in windy meadows with
hair at our feet and eyes to the wind
where
dancing is the slow rhythm of
feet in grass and blood in veins
Stars are closing in but
a blind man’s world is a house of flowers
or What you make of it
Meaning has jumped
nimble feet and graceful elbow
out the window and her sister’s are following
In calico clumsy
laughter
The raspberry thorns have caught my dress
-but hark! It is my trouser
And we have chased them into
Lofty heavens where
tents and grimy cook-pots
mingle with smoke and stench of
Death visits here often, abandoning
the spheres below
For where meaning goes, what choice has Death
but to follow.
We do not drink wine,
here on this continent of sand and
ever-rising tides
We like our
control
too much, for a heartattack a day
is such a small price.
So we lounge in overused
concepts of meadows as
bare feet churn the sky
We shall never surrender the
knowledge that comes as
words tumble up;
scraps of paper.
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