And rounding the corner,
we keep both eyes open for
impending calamities
approaching victories
but we trip.
Once again,
the dust of our human hands
human minds, human cells,
discarded, dead,
gets in our eyes.
What can we do but nurse
our skinned knees
slowly taste the blood,
and form a picture from blurry fragments?
This is how love is true.
And while we’re here,
knees bent to our lips
head rocking slowly,
humming some worn-out
lullaby that tastes like
sugar cookies and mothballs
on our tongue,
while we’re here,
maybe we look up
and there above us is something
that sends us staggering for the next fall.
This is how faith is true.
And for maybe the time it takes
the sharp inhalation of this
to hit our lungs,
we are human and more than human.
And because primal and primitive are not the same thing,
we are born in this moment as advanced, eternal infants.
2007-07-24
07:10:55
·
6 answers
·
asked by
Anonymous
in
Poetry