Your Left Hand
He Who Is Farthest
Writing With Your Left Hand
Sometimes I write with my left hand
when the weather turns cold,
and my heart is pounding in my chest
like an anchored drum.
I can't seem to shake the feeling
that I am being watched
as I walk down Fifth Avenue, but
it is only a blue jay,
looking for a place to stay out of the storm.
There is no justice anymore,
when a bird cannot find a place to nest,
and the darkness is so dark I cannot see my hand
in front of my face,
even as I write, even as I imagine
places far from here,
where blue jays live in blue peace.
He Who Is Farthest Away
The farthest away climbers are like the sun
with its song approaching daybreak.
How quickly the river flows, and it is fair,
alive as angels as they were before.
The beauty of breath taking runs like
gold and shines so disappointingly in the dust
of the forest. Bones churn from every path,
the living man is his appearance of a single path
before him. Without the good of the world, the river
will never run the same, and all answers will be
on its journey. Hear the artificial sound of
my painstaking grasp. The statues of her womb
never made a man his fire; the fire of his grief
is the one I give to you, his grasp,
calm and cool as sadness creeps the white
Tall masts of a mirror before the breast of
daylight drive us to the ending shore. The river
will mar my tears, I have become
the snake lolling in the brown grass.
An incandescent speck of light.
Sound, noise. The faded symmetries
of the downed hieroglyph,
another marriage on the rocks.
Forced entry. Doomsday prophets.
How obscene is the hench thug?
Open your eyes to a new summer. Drink a little,
let down your hair, open conversation with the
water lilies about procreation. Sing a sad
tune about the closing of another year.
Dreams are the waters of the city. In pristine
whiteness, the great margins are accessible only to
the cold. We do not shout at the first enemy who
happens to come our way. But we, as a child growing,
take care of the little ones. My head
feels full of desert sand. I have been living
in a green house. We do not have an ending for the
first steps we missed, as we cross
over another bridge
into the heart of montreal.
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