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
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry
Excellent criticism everyone! Thank you so much, I've never showed this piece, it's something I've been mulling over for a long time, and now I have somewhere to start when it comes to revision. How exciting! Renaissance Man, yes you may keep a piece. I am always surprised and delighted when someone wants to actually keep something, so thank you! (And please, I asked for criticism and was thrilled to get it, so don't feel bad giving it).
2007-07-25
01:41:21 ·
update #1
Romentari, I agree with you about the last time, it is abruptly some one elses voice, and I am a psychology student, so maybe I did take that from a textbook... seriously though, I'm quite attached to those last two lines, even though it switches everything up. Thanks girl, for picking up on my voice so quickly!
2007-07-25
01:45:03 ·
update #2