Tuesday, May 29, 2012

A lost poem, re-written

I could almost see ahead of me
a night of drink, perhaps love

how many like me have come home
cold and dead    from such nights
from such love

I could nearly see ahead of me, stars
bleak horizon and the jagged lost line
of inkblack mountain

from that darkness emerged
dark fountains, flowers found,
the faces of women
seem so beautiful,

sensuous us
though half blossomed,
faded and failed
in that nameless instant, now

just us

you and I in this unpieced place
where unknown
we fall into the eye of the unnamed

after all this, death, half-funny
another daze demised

sculpture not carved of stone
but of prayer, and blame,

of glass
anonymous death, half-funny,
half lame.

that much, at least,
was unanimous.

when nothing lasts,
nothing comes
awfully fast