by Gideon Burton
Three things unhinge the firmament, and four
Return creation's bounds to chaos grey:
The bleeding constancy of dark dismay;
The body breaking, growing ever poor
In time's economy; betrayal dark,
The love of brothers turned to oily stone;
And water dripping, dripping in a drone
of rusted plumbing. I have seen a spark
Of moonlight sizzle over rippled waves,
And with an hour's silent music bled
Myself of what was pale or weakly red
Along my veins. These are the sharpened staves
To pierce an afternoon, to curb the mist,
To solemnize the breeze, the evening's fist.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Sarah Julianne.