[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem
- From: david ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 25 Dec 2005 00:12:04 -0800
There is only so much dust a shelf can hold,
only so much water pours through any crack;
fire finishes when it has no more fuel,
disaster unglues every seam,
discovers spiders.
Decay comes to an end, we're told.
Fat bags of fertilizer,
which bulge when wet,
curve
and so breed.
So, you say,
"What rot!"
And I say,
"What cause for hope?"
Alas, of the next verse all that remains
is one slender memory.
I took the dog out late at night,
as usual,
watched him pee,
breathed quiet and peculiar warmth beneath great stars,
then caught the sudden whiff of inspiration,
swallowed some immense possibility,
brought on probably
by a half inch of whisky
in a tumbler glass;
then it--how often does this happen--
like common steam of wee,
smothered peculiarly
by a magician's cloak,
or some flashing sleigh's sudden backdraft,
slipped away,
like a fighter fleeing missiles.
What was that point, I wonder?
Who knows?
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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