Scene of the Crime

In yet another year when it's said the world
will end again, the sky's red before
the snow and ice come. It seeks me,
this world with its blood and cold.
On days when I don't know
the meaning of words, they
remind me in frozen rain
at my doorstep how
brittle and bare I am.

Mommy babble rouser,
tracer of shadows between dew
drop and bird on the wire,
self lost in fog because it mimes
the shape that you itself becomes;
you, self, the one with the belly button
that collects yesterday's sloughed skin
and fibers from the scene
of the sin that's existence,
mirror the self pining for its own loss.

Clothe ecstatic bones and unveil the nature
of desire. In the bed made and unmade 1000 times
1000 times, touch the tail of a comet riding stars.
There's no cure for chaos, just a chance to find a point.
The wild wind will stir the past alive today
and wake you, pulled apart and glued together,
praising life and its emptied sky.

How many wires and cords
must I uncross to make the universe right?
Tangled clot of verbs, nouns, and world,
dare to wear the mark of the slave,
bearing its shame, nothing thing, blown
scrap by winter wind on bright days
rousing sleep from your eyes.
So shall it be always here.

(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All right reserved.