isolation

At night the white lines are like the dreams I have heard

some nights, hers. The dashboard lights hold my nerve,

at the wheel. I dream the darkness I pass returns

to silence, more deep, awed by the most exquisite

discipline, at speed. I prime those slow gentle

downs; intuit the curves, the lay of her hands,

and these black lands my other senses know well.

 

You have trod the snow of the eastern wilderness,

stranger. One day you found your way your Self , sailed

home; done are you  now with such alien

suffering? May you nestle in; friend, dig that hole

in the snow for winter. Me? I’m so far away

I can’t begin to say, to score my pen across

the wide, wide page. I feel sure that I shall stay.

 

This town shall not tumble down like a tower.

In time, however, the blocks will crack, spread thin

their lines, wide along suburban miles and miles

of wood & brick; bungalows built like props. The time

will wear down, the houses crumble down after years

of nothingness, missed by the Lord’s momentous

reckoning; and the weeds will grow where they will.

 

3 December 2015

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