Spring Walks

in those days,
in spring and autumn
we walked,
we wept for nothing,
like potters amongst
our wreckage and
garden-drunk from wake
to soulnaked sleep—we
goaded those
mistless headwinds to touch
eternal dark somewhere;
that place of pictures too
big for space’s way of
flesh and gore—the great grey
mass in shuddering magnetic
motility pushing with
what little light there was
so late into the heat of things
upon our holy prepositions,
our cartesian coordinates
echoes sounding now inside
our own high frescoed apse,
ugly now with smoke of
body’s engine,
body’s dynamo,
with rotor’s
dotering rhythm—
wir machen fortschritte
in unseren gemütszuständen—
we stroll again through those times
in antiquity—our pottery,
yours and mine,
redecorate our
rare walks in spring.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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