Because I cannot be held, let me tell you that I am a rock, mythical and heavy and unyielding to wind and time and all things that speak of erosion. I am the midsummer heat saying, Look, Albert, that bird has faded into song, the song has faded into memory, memory has faded into you and you have faded into memory, mine. And we will fade as the bird has. What need for me, then, a word hollow as the warm barrel of a gun? My brothers call to me from their graves, saying mean, because there is no other way to live. What does it matter? Look, Albert, that star has died lifetimes ago and yet it burns still. Look, Albert, another bird is streaking across the sky, another sky unmindful of the many words for sky that have died. Look. Let me stay here some more, dear stranger that I am, under this vast gray waiting. Let me keep my eyes open. I mean, let me mean myself for a while. Labels: poetry, writing exercise |
