04-17-2016, 12:51 PM
Further Down, Further Out
I could not walk forward so I went back
before the time of the knife,
before you got into my bed.
Your shadow stretches like a string,
until you are less than shadow,
a fuse ignited by the frozen sun.
Dishes fly back into hands unbroken,
and all is frozen in the gray
between seconds. A fawn stands
at a lamp post, smoke returning
to his pipe like an inhaled breath.
The lion drifts down, a feather
to settle upon the seamless stone surface.
Blood pours from the ground into his torn neck,
as a knife pulls back sealing the wound.
A small girl looks for a place to hide.
Her hand is on the door.
I could not walk forward so I went back
before the time of the knife,
before you got into my bed.
Your shadow stretches like a string,
until you are less than shadow,
a fuse ignited by the frozen sun.
Dishes fly back into hands unbroken,
and all is frozen in the gray
between seconds. A fawn stands
at a lamp post, smoke returning
to his pipe like an inhaled breath.
The lion drifts down, a feather
to settle upon the seamless stone surface.
Blood pours from the ground into his torn neck,
as a knife pulls back sealing the wound.
A small girl looks for a place to hide.
Her hand is on the door.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson