Nostalgia for the future beyond
the black wall eclipsed his path.
The earth grew heavy within him and wanted
to sleep. The days no longer buttoned
inside the uniforms of order.
The streams of desire ran dry in their beds.
The light could see no point in staying.
Others around him were looting their lives,
minting children, painting self-portraits
for the coffers of art, or carving sepulchers
of fame to lie in memory forever.
The cairns of despair were everywhere.
Elegies filled the air. But then
he thought how little we live our lives,
how the black wall was a black angel
pointing us back to the moment we have,
to the one grain in the eye of the hourglass,
to the one altar of sacrifice,
to even the moment the heart must fist
to existence and hammer the point of being
like a nail, to even the moment so painful
the mind wants to leap from its fire,
to even the blue cold moment
in caterpillar days that crawl
through the long winters — all must be lived
so endurance can bear its revelation,
and the fist ease to an open palm,
and the fire quench in a time of water,
and the blue turn as rose as the blue
newborn that gasps its first breath
and its two lungs billow like sails.
Revelations
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