1. |
tim
02:58
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tim, sometimes the heart is deceived
by a language that often repeats,
so that the visions just build upon themselves
like echoes in an empty well.
& tim, though we know not of where you have been
the doldrums are where it begins.
did you get lost in that widening gyre?
did you get cold despite the fire?
o tim, what did you learn from your time in the trees?
what song did you hear on the breeze?
did you see that old star in the sky?
were you the last one to see it shine?
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2. |
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well don't pretend that you've learned all the meanings of all my words, for even subtle shifts of tongue are enough to change the color of the light. well you told me once, then you told me twice. well you told me three times in one night. but even i could see the colors change in front of & behind your eyes. so until the wind spreads thin the moment long enough to smooth the stone, well i'll tell you then just what i mean. but until then we'll never know.
o & i know now just what i knew i was learning afore i met you. i see that ribbon in the wind & the way it bends makes perfect sense to me. o the braided stream is a funny weave, sometimes we split to make ends meet. & all this wrestling of words only serves to muddy up the spring. so half constrained by the language our mothers taught us when we were young, well i spend my whole life in search of new ways so i guess i'm never done.
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3. |
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when the nights start to grow long
& the cold starts to linger long after the dawn
i will get right down on my knees
there in the scattered light of the moon through the trees & i'll weep.
& as the tears freeze like dew on the blade
well i'll set to my work in the dirt with my spade
& i'll dig all my troubles a grave
ya, somewhere to bury this burdensome name & i'll sleep.
o, in the soil where the blood has been spilt
well a flower might grow & a flower might wilt
but the stars will continue to shine
o, as if light were a memory of things that have long since died.
well, what weighs heavy on my mind
don't weigh nothin' in my hand.
& the sun may rise, the tilt may turn,
but some seasons they don't change.
but if Time & her merchant be willing i will pay whatever i can
just to know that this path of mine straightens out sometime before it comes to an end.
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4. |
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i’ve been dreaming about us for the past three or four days.
& though i do not remember my dreams,
well i wake up feeling scattered, a little bit sadder,
a little bit slower to the take.
as if my mind is out in the weeds.
i doubt that you think of me often,
at least i rarely think of you.
it’s just when the peach tree we planted
puts on its blossoms
i can't help feeling blue.
but now don't mistake me, my darling.
o yes, most days i'm doing good.
well, don't everything always hurt just a little?
o but, that ain't you.
nah, but memory is a funny thing
like a wave or the winds or the moon or a sunset
well, it don't make sense, but,
there it is.
there it goes.
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pyrrhuloxia Alpine, Texas
gnarled & mature with weather & poetry.
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