Words, rumors of the wind through drafty walls
and windows like these. Light-pierced,
burnt, the great spilling of words.
Word is a memory, a dry leaf
rustling past a bare tree—a marvel in green
but gravely now blown away.
Dreaming word. Meaning’s but part of the madness,
the real art being love. Which myth endures
bodiless in mind? Which mortality stirs
sounds in the wall? Are you gone forever?
Here and now wrecked
over and over.
Vesperal whispers rise and drop, speak, stop.
Echo in my cavern of stars.
One word rooted
as if its stem were a wound
in the heart of a man. I,
blurry as the sky.
Haze obscures the sun.
And the words lighten. Fresh air in the chest,
grandmother’s stories blessed at river’s edge.
A small bay in a small town, windy, wet.
Her voice rises to the weather;
look a sailboat leans far off in the channel.
Memory wills the day, and as such, freedom
fades. The words were so long ago.
Leaves and papers stumble down Fifth Ave,
dancing in red tailight exhaust.
Fear pokes through the city,
a splintered brain hurrying,
incapable of the task. Wind on my face,
gentle power channeled through downtown’s crevasse.
My eyes tear, nothing to do but let them. This,
body has in spite of mind.
What does fear say? I hadn’t planned
to say it myself. A poor command of ethics,
dear little crying. Shall a long, quiet word make me understand?
Or will this wind smother
a full long look within?
Chris Bevens | pedalpoet 