Friday, April 12, 2013


You speak and hear but let us be the night.
In sight of your gorgeosity we know we own it
'Tho we idolize the voices that you use
And think we hear what your ears can't convey.

The world of birds and trees cooperates
That we make all these sounds and call them singing,
Because we still believed that we were beasts
Not thoughtless Gods who had forgot our other.

All that's left of you's a gesture, a hollow bead of notes;
You come forth like a figure out of stone
-- We call it art -- finally a thing
That can perhaps withstand our understanding.

You would be all too easy to find
-- Impossible to know -- unless
You swirled your dress round nothingness.

I pretend you don't exist, to dream you real.

1 comment:

Jack said...

This seems to be about the notion of analyzing or contemplating until all meaning is gone. "Let us be the night" rather than talk pointlessly about the night. "Thoughtless Gods" who cannot enjoy anything because of unnecessary reflection. So art becomes the next target to perhaps withstand such a process. Maybe.