159

In the marginal trace of the paper,

I am empty and full, foul and emptied
of that feeling, that instinct, that taper
to spark a dream out of the yellow seed:
I hear the gambol of the watery
drops titter on golden strings of baseness,
making movements swing as Zen Archery
does to the sagittarian, baseless:
For ours is an unbottomless journey – 
for every fathom, there is a father
that re-begets himself forgetting he
only retouched the madrigal lather:
In the end, all meaning might be mended
only by the darkest truths upended.
Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s