CONFLUENCE

A dead dog on the pavement,

a pigeon sleeping on a sill

inform infinite aspects of life’s mystery,

for in silence they speak,

in defeaning glory,

of the regretless lighting of the wick of meaning

by fear, by beauty,

as if by the firmest hand,

the pair of the trembling one

tenderly outlining the solemnity

of our perpetual defeat

by the unjustifiable working of things.

MATTER OF FACT

Struggling for words never ceases

to admonish me for listlessness,

although progress in finding them is always evanescent

by nature.

That is defectiveness on both parts,

its and mine, but raises no matter of correction,

or deliverance.

It is a matter of the essence being

the impression and not the essence,

therefore of purely superficial satisfaction

of festivities amid warfare.

TRYING TO MAKE CONTACT

I do not need the mime in my mind,

I’m not dead.

A sulphur is not a model of anything.

She’s just an accumulator of inconsistencies

that roar about in distress-

so helpful of originality,

which I can only wish for

under my earsplitting obscurity.

Oh please, mime of my mind,

illuminate me and

good riddance.