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 

among sheep and bones

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 

of time.

 

words words words, 

dramas and misgivings,

promises and desperate sins.

ideals and brazen tears

wallowing naked and weak

baah-baah-baahed

on bone-strewn ground.

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