September 5, 2011 Verse Daily
Web Weekly Feature
Even my dreams won’t reveal you,
though the hand wants its scepter.
Instead, the sublimity of backdrop,
All Hallows, solemn close of paschal cabinets,
wounded stare, the all-out decking of box stores.
Fa la la, la la. O beloved departed, la-la, la-la,
obligate me, after work, a long day in a body,
passing beneath blooded lintels, maples, red oaks —
interpreters, I might be so bold to call them —
to sing in sacrifice, from century to century.
Your story is not mine, of course,
to tell. But the world is ingot-cast
cinders now & this hour already a beyond.
What weary head doesn’t crave its nimbus?
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