Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Like blown glass

Like blown glass,
Fashioned from the raw pink lungs of a twirl-fingered god.

Like melted plastic,
Stretched and bubbled and swayed
Gauzy in the way which was once known, but has now disappeared.

Colors like cranberry tea,
Slant-light lent mountains
new drapery.
My name is drawn in the sky;
Swept in Pastels,
Scribbled in Pencil,
Stippled in Crayon,
And bled in Paint;
But rarely scrawled in Pen.
I vow never to recycle language, just as the sky never recycles it's colors.

I saw pebbles scrape against the beast's belly,
suspended perfectly,
Every single tiny stone
Fastened to its own clear wire.

The world was blown backwards,
Time traveled in reverse as spiders unwound their cotton- candy webs of crystal and the threads
Were sucked into an enormous throat behind the east mountain,
While all light was drawn back by the hand of god.