written By
I was talking in mystic chord
memory, in chime and pulling through
the light of all things
Across, across the battered bookkeeping
dollar sense of where we left to
stream beyond, looking up to stark
Shimmering blackness, whole points
of galactic time swallowed in
blinking pace before us.
When you take the raw end of things,
clasping and human against the bloody
edge of time, it gleams weary
Of all worked through sentiments,
the reduction to a firm figure
that brokers no wonder, no fancy flight,
It’s not me you toss to wolves,
to sharpened teeth, matted fur;
Only the sense-memory,
of being there before.
