Rot-Grin
Jack
Once
a god now a dog in this backward time pokes
a head through
the hedge dividing what we see from what we
get. Antlers from
the human dawn have been drawn into eclipsed
Christian heaven,
dangling the bloodless body, lax rag, to strains
of the So What chorus.
The trees here are arrows no longer pointing
a way.
The
sculptor punches air out of lightless earth,
the moon above a cold hard stone,
scraps from the boneyard of old conceptions
surging through his hands.
Does this one mean anything to you? Does that?
But you've got your digits full too
in this land where we see by burning, where
we shop for meaning 'til we drop off
the map and stare up where stars used to be.
The
poet says others are not the medicine for loneliness.
Is there anyone here whose fever has broken?
Is there anyone here who knows
what season this truly is?
© Diane
Gage
all rights reserved
