It’s time for a brief holiday from the unscrubbed mirror.
So, I see all this stuff
About life and love
And dying
And how the stars echo
Some frail eternal now
And, yes, it’s hard
And though our hands be held
Entwined but ever separate
That skin that marks the boundary
Also holds the keys
And all that
And all that loss
Was dross
And some plain spun funk
Reminds of deathless agony
So far,
So long
Ago
Okay, I get that,
But just what is my job here, anyway?
“It’s a question of scale.
The same structure,
The same light, dazzles
Our eyes. What part is home,
We decide.”
Said the flea,
To the stork.
There is a heaven where
Storks clean their wings
And keep the earth
Clear of all that crawls
And stings
The light there
Is unbearably true
In twilights gone
Truth fades like some
Antique paint, unsuited
To the impatient light
We deal with nowadays.
Still, a window
Is a window.
I
En garde, Messieurs!
My rapier is sharper than two half-wits.
I can trim your dualities two ways to Sunday,
Twice a day, et tu, brutality.
Why waste time on brilliant repartee?
A double-headed axe can twicely slice
And cleave like lipstick vine.
Entendre, Messieurs!
Your duelist tendencies bewilder no one.
Give it up. The day is lost.
Don’t think twice.
II
I had a friend who threw words
Like knives.
Thok! Thok! Thok!
And there you were, strapped to the board,
Hoping he wouldn’t lose his nerve
Among the adjectives.
Did no one tell you
Those knives were already there?
It’s only a parlor trick, after all!
exiles child 