Poem: Lucky Second

 

Lucky Second

 

the clear of the mind

is the still of the room

is the quiet of angels

looking down at a blue 

much bigger than anything before,

so many aspects

to approach with words,

the effort itself a trap,

all attempts moot,

the first the last,

and yet passion rushes in 

to scribble ghosts of ink 

onto a purity of paper.

 

and so there they are

words words words

fallen off pinnacles

tarred-and-feathered now 

fresh only for a lucky second

in the fantastical flourish 

of the magical glissade.

 

words words words, 

dramas and misgivings,

promises and desperate sins.

ideals and brazen tears

wallowing naked and weak--

baah-baah-baah bone-strewn

on the ground.

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