Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The Solitudes of August - II


Better my autobiography in late sun through green bottles
Than in words. They infect the mind with definition

While the swirl of blockglass still evades description
As it calls up memories of heaven.

They are not my memories, but something shared
Anonymous within, a library in a box.

The skeletons are kind, they move from room to room
Pretending they're alive, because we are,

No history, like ghosts, just forms to make new faces
Recognized. An innocence of sorts,

The way some talk as if the dead aren't at the table.
They need communication that much.

Love is real from lilacs,
The frogs and crickets hold the syllable in their throats.

The fireflies sizzle uncontainable.
The same is true for us. We form new names, to do without.

3 comments:

Hannah Stephenson said...

The skeletons are kind. It's true (and oh-so-lovely!).

I love this one! It reminds me of James Tate's "Intimidations of an Autobiography"--in it, I think he says something like "I arrange the day for you."

黃子黃麗旺軒 said...

一個人的價值,應該看他貢獻了什麼,而不是他取得了什麼.................................................................

三妮 said...

Each to his own. 人各有志,加油!............................................................