How does one attain richness in acts?
In living differently,
or in turning away, to glance clearly
at life, its golden statutes
bled into words, flesh, thing.
In the wish of a still embalmed second
like the imprinted mesh of a recognized glance,
that remains, that frames into a moving picture.
Each sore-faced man, or the still-eyed burn,
or a memory, like an unearthed golden urn,
lays out beachlike, shored against the tidal seconds,
orbed within each raindrop
each dissipation trampling softly onto umbrellas
as we tread across the rich rose gardens.
No comments:
Post a Comment