Tuesday, September 4, 2007

wild donkey


the Ishmaelite stands in the garden
and stares at the flowers
who turn their heads
away
from him, from her
like everyone does
eventually and inevitably


like the first frost
or the beginning of a long trip
to find a place
a place where one can go
to not be stared at
to not be the jester
dancing
and joking
for those who are less than you
for those dim bulbs
who shine so brightly
in this bright and tarnished world


the dull shines the dull shines the dull
the flowers fade
the emptiness threatens
to become space
hands against hands against hands
moreover


knocking hats off before
a voyage