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.
to the closeness of its far cry.
1 comment:
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.
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