Our Past, The Avalanche, Its Memory

22 Jan

In a swirl of color and time,
that tepid cloth,
history is a detached movie scene

I saw it about me

those rotten and perfect teeth,
the wailing voice of a torn robe
who tightens his cravat,
and puts the pen to the stone, the papyrus

a silk scarf is whisked over my eyes
I walk its caress
to where I now sit
this desk, here

in its drawers
and habitants’

fools, and clowns, scholars
Sewing mother
Drunk father

I am a small tree in an avalanche
stay inside, carve out a home
the pressure, Claustrophobic
but warm,
quilted from indulgences,
who straighten their collars, sit on the bench

those who came before me
all the passions

those inventors and lovers,
corncob pipes, toothbrushes
the Hamstring,
the Snare,

Without a breath in my body

my head inside a heart
which is an unceasing drummer
the collective bow of an opening night

The avalanche man is at the summit

Looking down,
a tiny fir, peaking,
like a child,
a tiny finger, needles, then a hand
the air its promise of a future

unladen with a sight such as its past

2 Responses to “Our Past, The Avalanche, Its Memory”

  1. snowtone at 12:54 pm #

    missing stanzas?

    • readzebra at 8:08 pm #


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