The guy with shoes like suns
coming toward me, or the part
in Monty Python's Holy Grail
when after leaping to break into
escape velocity, the clouds stop
leaping and disperse, the sun leaps
over the horizon and settles into
gravity, and what can be done about
gravity, except sweeping and shouting.
The page erased by shocked reverberations,
ground bursts spewing excess debris;
richter scales outline the silhouette
of a jagged and beleagured landscape.
-- Or else, the story of a pet rock,
when it slipped down the sewer drain
only to be eroded by sludge and waste.
But then again, blackberries, what if
he had said, "Blacberries
on a wet, black bow." Maybe that would've
said something new about us. Our
blacknesses and berryness, our
repetition of what moves us. Who's to say
it shouldn't be repeated. Only familiarity
and innocence make confidence - a dark light
in a dark atmosphere contracts
to become less of itself.
Fewer things to remember.
Brooms and mops and buffers, our last response.
I wore the same clothes as yesterday today.
I didn't expect you to remember.
Did you see the earthrise on TV last night?
