Thursday, December 12, 2013

A Veil of Glass

We drift through the chatter of advertisement.
The images are thicker than the snow and cold.
The fruits of our labor are plucked by others
As we plucked them from others.
We are proudly bursting with shame
And now is never the time to unlock it.

Did our eyes invent the night and the stars?
Some part of our innermost selves erased them.
If one could cease thinking, time would stop.
Conversely, time is the extermination of thought.
When all time was spent, there remained a final thought.
We ride its echo like the crest of a wave.

This poem arrived here against the odds,
Escaping the scrutiny of the mind and the taste
Of others who like to put their hands on things.
I am at a loss to write the next words
And yet they come from an infinite converse
With disembodied spirits we call books.

We babel the dialects of God, whose existence,
Like language, in some sense depends on us while we live,
Yet in another, obscurer way hands us a deathless irony.
These thoughts came to me one evening.
I have no way of knowing if they are true.

So a veil of glass divides
So it is a glass veil that divides
So it is a veil of glass divides
Thus a veil of glass
Thus it is a veil of glass divides