Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 17, 2007

Do Not Mistake Me

for someone who loves
to wait. This is my principle
sacrifice: the child asked to hold
still for so long that the boiled sweet
on her tongue cankers the flesh
there, quivering with
purposelessness.

Whereas the pigeon
can grieve decorously when
the moment—a broken biscuit,
stem of horsetail, or its mate—falls
beneath the wheels of a bus, and
its small meat of meaning is lost.
In the life of a bird, rote crisis
has an existential thrust,

so the steadfast pigeon can
thrust-totter-thrust neck-first
through any while of waiting,
two sure-fire orange eyes to bore
down the sun. But not me. The dance
of angst grates me; it spins
but never grips, for
I'm capable

of impatience in
the very sound of a clock,
have been known to dream bombs
into the workings of things that tick-tock:
the mechanical toy, the egg timer,my own
overstudied right eye, the neck
of the pigeon, even
as it flocks.


Posted by delire at April 17, 2007 11:32 PM
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