philipGtaylor

Without Knowing

Thick in a thrum of cutting wind,

humming without thought and turn

is a hint of a point. And passing by

too quick to grasp, a soft knowing is laid.

For now the shadow abounds

and flits quick from sight, from brim of branch

and through soft roots of a wood, splitting

at paths and ways of our communal trails.

And following the thinning of our position,

at the final duration of our musing. Abruptly, our dying

is not a small or rapacious or stingy thing,

only tiring, a constant drip of a tap through night,

and also an affliction of brutish constructions put upon

our fantasy of what was past: midday, a building of twigs,

a fractured kismet bound to our will, grinning

and carrying out our instructions to a sharp T ---

my ship is sunk --- and cold, and distant,

stars far past this window burn in symphony

along with an cosmic conductor too softly to sound.

I sway at the top of a slick flight of stairs

and wind my way to its bottom along a pool of rain. Is this it?

this iron comfort, full of fair taboos,

or was it your ambition to stop? And that aquatic mirror

turns inward, rippling soft as a fluid cast of your skin.