it’s funny
how he believes silence conceals
what he loves and what he does not;
as if the wordless trees
could hide their breathing limbs,
from me,
as if they could suppress such majesty
from the eyes of a goddess.

I can even feel the limbs that’ve fallen,
who remain as still and untouched
as that unused dictionary,
as solemn and as dusty as church corners,
the pages where all that’s holy is lost
to neglect and the musty air of late Sundays
and bleached blonde haired stilettos.

inside,
every word is a finger that points,
to some unfamiliar feeling,
expansive and ever shifting,
like the poetry itself.
Yeshua said, “Don’t be of this world. Be only in it”
and yet she still walks on toothpicks
even through his eye.

If the shivering crowd didn’t surround each verse,
they would’ve escaped as quickly with the wind,
unheard and unspoken, eternal, unfound,
and all their waters would pour into chalices,
wrapped in gold and forgotten wisdom,
peace and crisp autumn air,
ever the fall and the quiet refresh;

but nevermore saith the winter raven,
nevermore,
as clouds shift grey to blonde,
and move away into the ethers
giving no history of what they’ve done,
but write and read a million books of politics,
engraved in every grain of sand,
code to chip.

so, I have to laugh just a little,
my words as ancient as the stars,
a smile here and there,
if only to make life more livable,
to dot the darkening landscape
loud in its cold shuttering,
the crackling of hard language and ice,
the moon dance across the surface,
careless if it all just breaks.

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