Friday, March 22, 2013


It happens, opening a tin,
it’s just an instant and you cut
the tip of your forefinger,
the sharp edge rips in
and it’s at once a gash
and your dark red soul spills.
It was very ready just underneath,
now it seems to escape so eagerly,
flooding in rivulets from within,
keen on staining the world
expanding in any casual Beyond.
It has happened so fast,
the sign maybe of how we can pass.
In a blink of an eye
your astral body looks
smeared everywhere,
table, chair, a trail on the stairs,
you sense the thin
precarious boundaries of your being.
Until you find a way to staunch at last
what is after all just a tiny opening,
maybe less than an inch of a chink.
Touching it you feel the shine
of your most hidden nakedness,
your fundamental liquid nothingness
over the bones, those just a little
emancipated stones.
By then you try to smile
at how it goes unsaid
the fragility of life.
And feel glad enough
discovering you can still write.
Although the plaster on your forefinger
softens the touch too much
and distances you from each key
showing how easily the world can recede.
So, only the old lessons remains,
the only choice on this side:
stay in silence, listen to the river within,
to the closeness of its far cry.

1 comment:

Dave King said...

Very close to the bone (pun not intended) this for me. The cold has been causing my skin to split and the splits to gush with gay abandon and without warning. In spite of which, I did much enjoy the poem.