“I made the sand a boundary for the sea, an everlasting barrier it cannot cross. The waves may roll, but they cannot prevail; they may roar, but they cannot cross it.”
— Jeremiah 5:22 (NIV)
this is not the angel of death we face who holds sway is but a spectre of fear we who prefer to huddle in flock or herd have been culled out, separated and this oh this is our emotional ruin
too long we have trusted in our safety so that now we fall easily into blind terrors our minds are unused to life saving tracks so we run, we gather, we hoard — our peril rests, resides in that to which we now turn not the Mystery, the Other; one who sees all
abase yourselves in your self-held knowledge run askance before the cryer’s clarion call fear, fear! panic and despair, children and fools! Who then is hope for?
I stalk through the aisles angry; people do not think — “Distance!” Stripped shelves, fear-bound humanity hoarding; rude herd creatures, ruminating in front of the dairy case — I cough my “excuse me.” Stampede. I am the grey wolf seeking a weakened elk in the herd. Laughing, I leave the grocery little better than I came; empty.
below middle C a steady rhythm steadies turns tunes my ache to saline drip not pushed half time quarter time barbed time week week week wreaked
now undone one steady beat birds flick from white key to black again peace
again the piece plays along synopses down along the chords tuned sharp too sharply it plays hammers dampened keyed back to perfect pitch rain drops on the grand beads on black lacquer caught in spotlight reality the hush rushes over the faceless crowd and I am left to drown under the unwritten notes.
Like every storm cloud before you, I am with clear silver backed; though my tongue, free of glint, glistens not with honey. I eye the silver sprouts among the brunette, thinning pate.
Wisely you spend less in converse with me. I am without guile, speaking plainly. What you see in me is truth.
What you carry away in your view, however, is a matter of your moment.
When you return at the end of labor, your glance my way may, may not edify.
What you see in me will accurately tell the damages of the day — but not relate a possible arc of improvement. Morning is always bleak for those who slumber but fitfully. Return to home seldom brings immediate return to health and glow.