Wednesday, July 21, 2010

One Every 24 #35

Saw of Cicadas as the Earth Turns Away From

Here toward the sun underneath which every thing
Can not be new now or ever inside this time
Spilling always forward, always behind, us, its parasites
And blood, meaning, you can't divorce the two:
Us and the idea of time, there is not one without the other
Like me here now within the evening's ratcheted fade
Trying to put meaning to the cicadas cascading grind
or your eyes wherever occupying the connection between
us and the dirt-spec smallness of each insect letter in this line.

No comments:

Post a Comment