Saturday, April 2, 2011
Pressure, Low and High
You can smell what will fall from Heaven before it does--
Poppies are just drops of blood on the cool skin of the Earth.
A woman's arm has that bend for holding babies--
But when the sky is never close enough,
She will gather in what she pleases.
Lovers with hearts of ice or cinders--
Dream-beasts with rolling eyes and teeth for every wound,
On the flat line of the horizon,
You can see blurry cotton-ball houses in the path of the storm...
Angels and demons moan there together
In the rush.
Nature is nothing but emotion given scope and voice--
She is mindless, yet understands viscerally
Any furious, hopeless seeking
After unreachable peace
And impossible equilibrium.