Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Seven Year Day



Eyes unroll like braking wheels.
Wonder leavens languid reels.
Time distends precious and sure
a childlike patience for pleasure.


Somewhere,
a hemisphere away,
A refugee caravan
is slowed by rain....
And I must sing it.


How do you begin anarchy's child?
There is a whistle and then a blast.
The scent of cordite
buries hearts in ash.

This music never stays.
It plows up days
in waves continuously
breaking loss.

Until we long for
sleep's kind transience.