MM.11:130RIC MASTEN
imagine a woodsman
swinging an axe in the distance
the tree speaking out of sync
then nothing
except what is left in your eye
chips still fly but your ears
dumb fleshy things
hang from your head
useless handles frozen stiff
the world around you
fills with dead air
the quiet thickens
till the atmosphere is packed solid
surrounding you like clear wax
and every one there
rides in a limousine
stars of the silent screen
seen through shatterproof glass
the faces glide past
lips moving like goldfish
the trumpet has lost its voice
the sea shell — mute as a dish
my god in a place like this
what do you do with a word
like inconceivable?
spell it she said
hands moving behind the question
in a kind of semaphore
and you talk to fast
later that evening
the poems fell from my mouth
little naked birds crying for life
and who would have known
they were there
had she not taken them into her care
holding them up
til they could fly on their own
and back where this began
the tree came crashing down
and the sound
was the sound
of the deaf applauding
Poem, © 2000, RIC MASTEN
(all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet)
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