Anthology of dreams (drownedinwords) wrote, @ 2005-05-26 12:19:00

Postcard from the 11th Hour

There is nothing profound, at all
(with surprise in his voice)
about that gaggle of icebreakers
and quicksilver closenesses
which gathers on four wheels
and the handful of uncounted miles,

No matter how I shake
this plastic tube of stains
or how many concertos I
compose to

Or how quickly I read,
what dreams the road
embeds in the wet nights

Or how many thoughts of
that red hair I'm coming
home for.

I should be surprised to find
that ultimate silence out here, now.
We terrified it long ago,
with our many ways of seeking it out.

Now we cannot hope to
bring it home, to staple it into
frames and point with the travelled
thumbs we paid so well for
- there it is
The whole family right there in front,
proof we were there.
We cannot.

It is rather to stand
that we drag our electric moodswings,
our homesick tendancies
these many dusty days;
to stand amongst its organs
in its skin
where once the heart of something great was;
to feel it slide away again
and know ourselves too small and slow
to catch it here
with one foot in the unmapped world.