by Gideon Burton
The plow of time, a cosmic blade that scores
the paths of Jupiters and wobbling moons,
that trenches passive galaxies, that bores
its twilight augurs into day's cocoon.
The scalpel time, irreverent and crude,
repulsing pulses, bleeding rhythms pale
and panting, corpses stiffening and mute,
the oxygen of oxygen grown stale.
The sickle seconds subdividing breath,
pretending order, overturning light
or black or shivering silence blue with death,
with thatched and snapping neurons, darkly bright.
You bend or measure, clocking endless noon,
too late, too thin to rhyme with now or soon.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Lynn
I love the contrast I feel in this. Even though it's been there all along, space is such a futuristic idea. And to juxtapose it againt the plow and sickle, very old farming implements, gives a sense of the passage of time. Hm. Maybe that was the point.
ReplyDeleteYou and your... words! I love the alliteration of "sickle seconds". Terrific.
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