Dawn offers no surprises to certain
strains of you and
me; I may be
a reveler tonight and work the book
like Luther until
half past three,
panning blurry plotlines for nuggets
in the stream:
Jordan’s tributary
where angels dream of Jacob’s idols’
infidelity. That’s
enough for me.
You, more wisely, sleep the cadence
of the clean: why
allow detritus
into any evening’s scheme? Lessons
of Luke 9 are bound
to jostle us,
Peter et al pretty
sleepy in the midst
of things (a due alarm
for Titus)
as the clockwork dead will bury their
own dead, succoring
the masses.
We must get on in stride: fat old Sun,
bright Earth and Moon,
planet 9,
whoever designates the unseen path
of spheres tonight—yours,
mine;
some wooly mammoth’s destined to
unfreeze when
untold stars align
and sojourners let life unfold as only
God
ensures that Day 8 is
benign.
Daniel Martin Vold
Lamken (2016)
Dan, after struggling with some last minute (hour, day) edits to my next weekly post, and despite the random argument of others, I appreciated the freshness of your week well spent. Old poems, like old arguments, wither in comparison.
ReplyDeleteAnd on second read: Probably unrelated to your benign Day 8, but give a listen to Bowie's latest and last: Where the F*** did Monday go?