Wednesday, May 1, 2013


Francis Bacon, Head (1948)

  </solar system>
   seeing by destruction
   and creation
   in desert sands
   where the gold
   of setting suns
   on dark east mountains
   spills blood
      why do I fill space
      born from body's
      rooting need,
      spirit's loneliness
      or obscure light
      of beauty flown
      in an idle glance?
        what is does not remain,
        the song dies in the throat
        of the warbler, the knot
        in the crotch unties
        in the womb
         piecing together a scrap
         book of joy and triumph,
         the empty spaces
         reporting who and what
         I never am, where
         the voices of the past
         vie for unity, a piece
         of infinity tasting
         a dying tongue

Copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.

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