Читать книгу an inkstorm summoned under live oak we dreamed - daniel boonelight - Страница 11

words are an instrument

that instrument and i are in a relationship

and that relationship is an imbroglio

it is unforgettable the way

i have heard three dangling words

escape from the panting breaths

next to my ear as though they meant

all the heavens and stars combined

in their intent and gravity

and much later when nothing

except silence replaced them

i am tempted by mistrust and anger

to give them scarlet lettering

banish their welcome from my life

but were i to fall deeply into regard

with the presence of a cello,

and it sang the clockwork of my heart

if a person kicked and mangled that cello

and it did not last into forever,

i would not hate that cello

but would be grateful for everything

it enabled rightly in its fair time

sometimes someone makes something

like a stradavarius or willy's trigger

and by some stroke of grace, it lasts

through hundreds of generations

of doves of freedom to redeem

and those instruments are

the pet-names that last a long marriage

or a cherished childhood expression

someone whispers to a smile on a deathbed

or a monologue uttered inside the globe

theatre that recounts the same heartstirrings

today as it did back when foodforaging

took hours and a maidenface was salvation

the instrument i employ

to channel to another these vibrations

that comprise my inner sanctum

is verily lovable, because if we did not

play out these songs then we would

sit in silence and not know any

of the joy and sorrow, the pain and pleasure

that each other held in womb real as rocks

but sometimes i am forced to put

the thing quietly back in its case

and under the bed, because it is time

finally, for quiet.

words are an instrument

that instrument and i are in a relationship

and that relationship is an imbroglio