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
where
from
to
by.
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 also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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