Sun beats down
as relentlessly as April allows.
I watch the only sizeable cloud,
heading his way,
dissolve amazingly
as it proceeds
above the thorn's translucencies.
The breeze -
a pleasant undercut of cool
when it stirs at all.
Blackbirds deliquesce noon tunes.
And yet my mind still dwells on dark
Chthonic mythologies.
Dreamed last night of stairways to descend,
guardians to pass, words to be uttered.
No. It was said the entrance had been lost,
forgotten, grown over with nettles and fireweed.
Blackbird words hieratic now,
a language lost in mystery.
I'll let the sun dissolve this cloud in me.
...
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
