04.24.06
Posted in Mine, Personal, Poetry at 6:57 pm by Moody
i.
From those two hands wring silence, iron wrought,
Mold it as clay, as if by willing dream,
And lay it there upon a page. There, caught,
Pinned and framed, ready for the book's close seam,
What is it you have found? A nightingale?
A frog? an imp? a rose imperious?
Have you a tiger by her paper tail? --
How sweetly disappoints the quietus.
Nor could you (though so you'd hope to have it)
Know aught of such silence in its habit.
ii.
The dark descends as stardust ocean bound,
To mix its dissolution with the salt
Of that rich blood, upon which we were found,
Thence to bear no word. Harder than basalt,
Sharper than diamonds, heavier than lead,
The darkness of the silence spreads its wings
And rises from the page. Not live, not dead;
Itself alone, the kin of other things.
Nor could you (though so you'd hope to have it)
Know aught of such silence in its habit.
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