Thursday, March 24, 2011

(Love In A Time of Voluntary Diaspora)

Gesture after gesture, we pause
gangs of human flesh, wanton, exposed
backs bent, arms outstretched,
bloody hands slit by the oiled blade
of the intangible orb.
The bushels of proof, tied in bundles,
as if knots of twigs, or bits of brush
culled from the soil of our earth
to kindle the flame of the soul.

This pulchritude
not borne of acrid prose
meant to violate the pure page
or drift rotten across our tongues
like a corpse, tossed about purple sea.
Nor does it lie dying in the widow’s web
or passed from breath to bitter breath,
in a tangle of crooked limbs
and gently breaking bone.

For the proof of our {be}

will bloom again in simple things
like the frying of an egg
or the twisting steam
from a pot of Russian Tea.
Proof lives just beyond our breadth
snug in the arms of the aged willow
and alive in the sunrise whisper
of the morning paper
landing on our winter porch.

© 2011 A.g. Synclair

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