Monday, March 16, 2015

At 6 am


At 6 am
to be here in the lake
watching light
sketch upon the pitch-dark
with its finest pastels
is to know
how a sea of love
gently swells
against the containing wall
of the ribs
that tells
heart from bone

At 6 am
before the mind cribs
'mean and routine',
before man-sound
and engine grunt
hunt and blunt
the senses
before a city awakens
and a dead-living

At 6.15 am
while I am still
a whiff
beyond 'what if'
a blade of grass
seeking no class
wordless, yet all-well
at 6.30 am
while I am
if at all
I am
a damp-soil sigh
a third eye
with eyelids of joy
oh boy
At 6.50 am
I fall
fall back into the
the falsity of senses
of time and its tenses
and captive
from the wing-flap prayer
of four birds that fly
without a care
right off the sky canvas
I fall...into this coarse
crowd of 'us'