Sunday, December 4, 2016

Collapsing Sunday

It's bittersweet
          this peace
That in the arc of breath
Into the holes not taken
          that grow
From being dark and full
          of echonoise
What might have been
          -- what was
          but never was...

The melody repeats
          stark longings long deferred
While orchestral cushions
          -- never more than auroral ghosts --
Are as voiceless as the sky

The fact of loss
          like a gilded cage
Where sunset stays
          ambrosia out of reach
As unresolved as what hands
          make of time
The picayune weeds one threads through
          to meaning

From some dream that burned
          away before
For cold star certainties:
          elegant denials, noble vindications
The final harmonious note
          stolen by the red-tinged sky
Fading into dissonance
          -- so rich and so alive...

A glow that holds the wizened hands
          as they pass through lighted rooms
Unfolding and then putting back
          things too small to see
Not memory or wisdom
          but what must finally be
Some sacrament of love

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