04-07-2021, 12:47 AM
Stupor
When edges blur,
bodies on the ground appear
asleep. You breathe the chill
from your lips, watch it rise
in tiny clouds like from a train
puffing down the dark bend
of a crooked track. Shadows
in the distance refuse to coalesce,
and the eyes from above press
your shoulders down, burdened
under an unbearable weight.
Your feet squelch in mud. Nothing seen
can be unseen. The grasshopper
lied about winter, and the lemon drop
proved that life was sour
beneath its sugared rim.
When edges blur,
bodies on the ground appear
asleep. You breathe the chill
from your lips, watch it rise
in tiny clouds like from a train
puffing down the dark bend
of a crooked track. Shadows
in the distance refuse to coalesce,
and the eyes from above press
your shoulders down, burdened
under an unbearable weight.
Your feet squelch in mud. Nothing seen
can be unseen. The grasshopper
lied about winter, and the lemon drop
proved that life was sour
beneath its sugared rim.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson