The day has been spent.
gathering things for the journey
to Babel;
trinkets that will travel to bazaars.
Mouth desires that will not be deemed rustic
in the sea frowns--
other words in old books
that the tongues have licked,
instruments that prophets have approved
lounging in ornate tombs,
wolves, that will trail the cart
slipping in the wagon ruts.
Speak, with hand out, bow
with eyes down, the City
rises over the horizon
in a halo of dust
mandogs toil in its shadows
howling speakwise
all of its undoing
the square of its finding:
this craft of mending tents,
meddlesome tomorrow
standing in the street
tongue sweet with private matters.
Strange men on horses
who fell to quarreling
over corpses. beasts
chained to walls
while the laughing
continued within,
the bride defiled again and again
some of her kin blue white
bursting with odor
as the reins are slick with sweat
and cracked with old days
aimless with the breath of Babel
stirring uneasily.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
"...and the people who agreed asked:
what is the purpose of all this dust?
and the mighty bull on the top of the collumn,
the golden lion roaring upstairs, and the snake rolled around the wine, all three responded: no scope."
-
It is quite atmospheric isn't it. I can feel -- somehow the dust and heat of the streets. Hear the clicking tongues -- chattering
The very poem itself appears to be on a journey.
Babylon a fascinating study and surely here -- metaphoric for something I haven't quite figured out yet. disturbing last stanza.
i agree with rowan. about you're being a gift.
-
you are a gift.
"tongue sweet with private matters."
oh yeah.
Adding your comment:
