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Showing posts from November, 2007

World Music

An American sits at the base of a statue
In the light rain, pushing puffs of smoke
Over his drooping jaw. Others have gathered
In the dusky winter grey, clutching
Umbrellas and each other.
A child stands before them, delicate as frost,
In heavy clothes, a black watch cap
Belying a fluttering brown mane.
She holds a guitar much larger than she.
I lean against the nearest wall, watching
While she plays that instrument
As if she had been born with it,
Raising her voice in a bold
And gritty vibrato
That her years cannot account for.
She plays her soul through that guitar,
Casting it over the crowd
To be dissolved in the light rain
And soak into our clothes and our skin
And change us.
A kind of white aura rises from her,
Like a discharge of spiritual energy,
Cascading in all directions,
Waving rhythmically, like some
Opalescent blood-warm flame.
I'm not ashamed that I want to cry;
I want to let the dampness stream
Down my face to be dried by the cold wind
That is raining leaves and other bits
Of floral matter all …

Cry Me a Bridge

In the park I saw an average-looking angel,
And her eye was pointing at mine.
I mustered up all of my blood and said,
All the best people are foreign,
From the far side of somewhere else.
If I dig my own grave,
Will you dance with me?
There is no one around here I know.

She said, I’d rather not have my own opinions,
But I can’t stand the silence of stars,
And I can never get used to being born.
Finality just doesn’t sit well.
All I feel is this wind in my eyes.
So if I cry you a river,
Will you cry me a bridge?
I think everyone needs somewhere to go.