How odd is it
That within me
I sense the furious fall of a shooting star
But you hear nothing but pleas?
I am the concrete calamity
Of an astronomical event,
A horrendous singularity,
The love-murder that begot the universe.
And yet, you see a tenuous abstraction,
An ellipsis of chalk on a black board,
An equation of sounds and glances,
The mathematical paradox that begot science.
How can I make myself known to you
As I am and violently am,
If all I have are metaphors,
Weary words
Tumbling like drunkards on the curb.
Wary words
Fleeing like outcasts from persecution.
Wasted words
Failing to convey the absolution of the moment.
How odd is it
That trying to reveal myself to you
Like the rapture of mystics,
Like a bloody heart atop a pyramid,
Like the blind harpist’s lament,
I ended up writing so many words,
Weary and wary and wasted?