We have sunsets now.
Winter shuts light like
pulling a desk lamp's chain cord,
but now we have sunsets to follow.
Morrison preferred dawn,
but one looks more carefully, I think,
at things one knows will not last-
things that shall pass.
Trees become ragged black spires,
and the sun a pagan mystery fire
burning out of Fraser's pages
when those hours fill the eye.
Who can tell the non-word? non-knowable?
Where does the light drain; can someone
delineate when the sun loses
shape, and the colors smolder into each other?
I mean when, exactly?
There are splendid fires to touch,
for now we have the sunsets.
And we hold to the twilit places
where we remember visions before
dark's vacant warmth and non-shape.
2 comments:
Some hokey lines...
I think I heard Frost or Stevens.
This is diggable, but yes, kind of sounds 100 years old. Not like that's a problem, necessarily.
I'm trying to imagine what it would physically look like for a person to delineate. Like the actual body. Maybe shapeshifters or superheroes. There is, I suppose, somewhat of a mystic quality to the voice of this piece . . .
My biggest grip is the redundancy of sunset return acknowledgment. What do you think about it?
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