Our initial faith in the world, our father, if you will, was not true enough -- everything we lack takes on definition and form. For example, on a hunt for our parent sun, a whole day, a whole city involved, there's a sense of overdoing it, a monotone, and when we find it, no longer yellow -- never really -- looking at it, our headache is someone else's collapse in space. I cease weeping in the mornings -- mornings are now part of theater -- and when a planet roars by -- honestly, space is a world of play, there's no reason why it shouldn't be -- the continents wander like huge rafts or lava-flows but without danger of spilling since there's no down there's merely five billion antecedents. There are substitutes and assumptions where once there were summers eating chicken and watermelon. You are my brother when I write; I kiss your face. -- when I see you I remember living with you, imitating you. And when I try to dream another world, a crystal of the continental crust -- you can imagine the bondage of those for whom description is redemption -- my soul dwarfs -- I know the future is included -- that feverish afternoon our brittle father and pretty mother marry again, carbonate ooze to monsoon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THYESTES, ACT 2: CHORUS by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA ON A LADY'S WRITING by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE WILD GEESE by MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY TO MARY SINTON LEITCH, POET AND FRIEND by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE ON CLEADA'S HILL THE MOON IS BRIGHT by JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 30 by THOMAS CAMPION |