and to think i could have missed this:
the sun biting through oven-made clouds
the grass stretching up to greet one million teenaged feet
the almost-wine spilling free from fountains
or really
the chair slamming into the desk
the future hanging from silver thread
the greatest temptation to sink deep into what is dead
the flowers....
the fire...
the people.....
to think to think
i'd choose the End is absolutely
improbable. understandable. easy as breathing in
grey air. un-and -questionable. perhaps even
the most prudent choice.
but who is to say? who is to tell the surviving few
and many
the whereabouts of the
near-dead? who will tell me
how the book ends
when its pages still
exhale
at the touch?
this is such a thing that
no living man ought to know. even the angels
scratch their golden heads. even the serpent
swallows his pink tongue
when the knowledge reaches the surface.
YOU ARE READING
OPEN-BRAIN SURGERY
Poetryshoved a needle in my brain and now my head won't stop bleeding
