into the wheel, metal against metal;
the sparks enlarge and dissipate.
Every wish is fumbled,
the dumb luck of a blind man.
Who can know what is
without feeling, what was
without memory...
These are the blue-green evenings to chase fireflies.
These are the rose singed mornings to see God.
There are (a hundred thousand) legends
that enshrine (a hundred thousand) lies
of shamans and scientists--natural curiosity--
into rumors that codify a kind of faith
in nothing
but one
single
falling
star.
There is a legend that explains
how we came
to neglect the sky. The truth,
triumphant out of its----------- pure hubris,
tells us nothing
about the doubt-filled vanity.
of Venus:
Love hovers
like an angel,
tenuously attached,
just inches above him.
This is his soul
trying to escape
the cacophony of his heart,
the shallow breathing in his chest.
She breaks her wings
on everything
and confined, like a guest,
she takes to her bed.
Love is an invalid
in his broken arms.
This is
for you.
like an angel,
tenuously attached,
just inches above him.
This is his soul
trying to escape
the cacophony of his heart,
the shallow breathing in his chest.
She breaks her wings
on everything
and confined, like a guest,
she takes to her bed.
Love is an invalid
in his broken arms.
This is
for you.
