| |
Forget the whole Orphean hymnal, the sonnets
And books of changes, the Gnostic chants, and metaphor’s
Metamorphoses. Forget the steps they taught you,
Widdershins or crane-footed, the
alphabet of trees
Against a horizon, mist lit by new sun.. It’s too dark
Now to read, four in the afternoon, a snow sky out the westward
Kitchen window, Bob Dylan on the stereo,
don’t
Look back, that old advice, still
good. It’s another northeastern
Pastoral, dead of winter, a squall coming it, which is how
I always thought I’d go at last, a walk into thickening snow
Past the little street lights of a suburban street, each
A halo of no particular meaning, since no house
Was the right house. Well, I like the quiet well enough,
But also this backward glance through a stack of old CDs
And books I’ve held onto since high school, words
To live by, which is what I did, I see now, with gratitude
However much I fumbled around the edges of hip,
However much I didn’t get it right, style
Or substance, I don’t think I missed many chances,
At least not to listen to what the songs meant but never
Said, not exactly, since it can’t be said because who
Knows if you don’t, right now, the only time there is.
|
next |
_jpg1.jpg){kind=small}
