At 6 am God used the belfry.
\nThe sweep, sonorous of angels,
\nskinned off the blanket
\nand opened my eyes for view
\nthe window drew near.<\/p>\n
I found the street in vernal
\ntrees, not one sunken
\nas on mornings from the curfew
\nand the tinder mist that breaks
\non souls rushing to work cubicles.<\/p>\n
Across, behind blindless windows,
\nstolid hearts spumed the
\ncoursing heavens.
\nYet, only a woman, hoary,
\nstepped with rosary
\ntowards the cathedral
\ntill she stopped in the infernal fear
\nthat remained every door latched.<\/p>\n
If they morph her hands,
\nthe shreds and devotion of lads
\nscrap yards wouldn’t have
\nand the car, drive
\nto God the fallowing bombs,
\nwho then ever will bring morning?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The self, all left, with closed eyes, at a piano.
\nSomeone, dark, like the dead,
\nin white satin, dancing to the sonata.
\nThese were the rocks in the river.
\nTop of the bridge rail, a still small voice
\njoined the breeze living
\nat the top of the rail
\nin its home
\nand they grew
\nthe metal bars to a height
\nthat tied his dive.
\nSome answers make you stay
\neven as each day will close
\nunanswered, worse, as a question,
\nfor the dance has no one, and you
\nare walking the burden,
\npalming what has gone,
\nlistening to all your voice has said,
\nlighting burnt candles to see
\nwhy you hover where you’ve left forever.
\nThey say all find it, he will confess
\nwhen he does, he will kiss
\nthe woman pieced by memory
\nand watch, if he looks, ahead,
\nhow the cleavage of the sky
\nheave, flow with innocence
\naway from the mirror.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Before I am put out,
\nbefore my shoulders take
\ntheir hands and truth is,
\nthey say, their work is done,
\nI would ask, but with no lamp,
\nhow can I follow my heart?<\/p>\n
Into a recline pose
\nthey break back.
\nTell me lad, on each
\nof its sound step.<\/p>\n
To this, I open an ear,
\nI fall few of nuts
\nof words they’d stuffed.
\nI show I am deaf.
\nThen I tell a story of shadows
\nand my enfolder into the silence.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I turned deep into the street,
\nwhich was sleep,
\nthat morning the world fell
\nand silhouettes
\nand thoughts
\nwhich leave and come
\nlike the former cycle of day
\nbegan to walk like men.<\/p>\n
Where the blades of maize
\nswayed I stood still.
\nIt seemed to them I said
\npierce me girls
\nhave a taste before
\nthe season takes you.<\/p>\n
They swallowed the wind
\nand stilled to my neck
\ntill a flea flew into the tangle
\nand twitched them to ask,
\nare you too happy?<\/p>\n
I gave no answer I had
\nwhich was none.
\nWhen the wind welled
\nout of their body,
\nI asked, with the patience
\nof a sickle, what dances you?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Into a bouquet of bougainvillea
\nI will now turn.
\nWestering kites, leave, a moment,
\nthe ruddy highway through
\nwhich who has took the sun.
\nCome towards, yourselves as a vase.
\nLift me into your carnival
\nand let me fly, fly with you
\nback into my heart.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
There is a number in the world
\nI cannot call; for you are not dead
\nthe bot waltzes and tones.
\nWhen talk of you over coffee
\nin a shroud said a week gone
\nthe leper smiled his face
\nfrom you to a young lady
\ndressed in corals
\nI saw you I thought.
\nMy body lifted to come
\nto hold the melting dream
\nbut I could not say if still
\nyou are my want and all we
\nscreamed and languor
\nbound me but where I could
\nand I picked your digits
\nwhich are just pebbles
\nin my hands from the webs
\nbetween the curtain
\nand the truth.
\nI dream, when I lay
\nin a cottage of us, my
\nheart beats in your chest
\nand yours in mine;
\nand I wake alien in myself
\nto give you back.
\nbut I cannot call you.
\nI only ask the rain inside
\nwhen it allows blue sky
\nwhy you ever left.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Who Then Ever Will Bring Morning? At 6 am God used the belfry. The sweep, sonorous of angels, skinned off the blanket and opened my eyes for view the window drew near. I found the street in vernal trees, not one sunken as on mornings from the curfew and the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1870,"parent":229,"menu_order":5,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1417","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1417","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1417"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1417\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1992,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1417\/revisions\/1992"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/229"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1870"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue17\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1417"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}