Morning birds on telephone wires talking in secret
brain language. Another 4th of May. Grew old and then.
Last night, listening at words for intimation of.
(The avid crowd. The child-teacher, sunkeneyed,
making the obvious into riddles.) But now
isn't what it was. A green bottle with a contrary
message, washed up from destinations beyond
the vanishing point. Subtract one and add
two more. "Do we own our guilt?"
Out there where smoke rises from golem-depths,
time is the form and pressure of an art you're merely
witness to. Like the fingers of a deaf piano tuner,
you think. And the boy with the red piano
banging its keys with tiny fists; a locked door
with a key sticking out of it: left to your own
devices, will you discover what connects them?
The midday siren - Plečnik's giant pacemaker,
rattling and whirring. Crossing the park
someone waves. The muted now sound of a piano
from an open window - subject and countersubject -
as if: to take a stance, for or against, one thing
or another. The time of day, the inauspicious weather.
Or a habit that barely forms before everything else
depends on it.
Profound story poem, gorgeously rendered 5 Stars full. I have enjoyed very much. Thank you for sharing. TODAY you are chosen as The Poet Of The Day. No place to write my CONGRATULATIONS, so I have done that here.
Good rendition of words, well articulated and nicely brought forth. Thanks for sharing Louis.
Where smoke rises! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
CONGRATULATIONS being chosen by Poem Hunter Poem Site as The Poet Of The Day! TODAY!