Monday, May 18, 2009

The thing.

Desiderio da Settignano-Little Boy (Florentine 15th c.) 

Before it rose even one time
It was full of blood, excuses and rain tantrums,

Pacing out how to walk steadily on a cupping limb,
It ought to be assumed the thing was born ignorant to the monolithic complexity:

Leaflet foot soles weightless and held in the air.

Thank that it rose at all, 
Rained at all, for giving you an enemy
So eagerly pitied and therefore
So readily mismanaged.


Mothers and fathers have gone a long while
Beating back the wild weeded run to a paradise,
They imagine being like Hawaii,
Their eyes already far ahead to that place
In the undisturbed future.

There will be red birds flying across the sun, 
Water rich with the reflections of ferns for them to swim, and still
--I'm sorry,
A predatory siren in the wood 
Lying patient, 


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