A child sits by the stairs
unsure about the meaning of the word
sadness. (Or stares out
the window, plunges a knife
into his own igneous heart.) What
does it matter, where he sits,
what he stares at? Or if he
is a child? Look, a cross
sits lonely atop a cathedral’s spire,
a sparrow chirps its laments
perched on rain-laced electric wires.
The city burns with the static fever
of what was the word again? (And later,
stars. Looking down at a vastness
littler than themselves.)
Everything expires.
This means, (he is a child,)
this is a knife. This is a litany
of knives. This is a staircase.
There are steps to be taken.
Labels: poetry, writing exercise |
