Sunday, September 30, 2012

Wind and fire and. . . Debussy




 
 
there is no translation
for streams of pure meaning
and pure fire
like motion
and speed
who made thee
my steed


 
the language of motion
the swiftness
that casts all words
into fire
consumed
by the moment


 
 
I dreamed of horses
crashing in surf
each shining in color
slick-wet
as with birth and the sea
I ache to see
 
 
 
 
the shell of words we live in
is prison
we die inside it
die to creation
the way life creates itself
 
second by second
 

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