Foolish Weblogger Child

[Perhaps it’s not the world that is soundless but we who are deaf. What membrane seals us off, from the music we used to dance to?] Why can’t we hear?

It was with a thumb wet with his own tears and stained with her blood that he made on the child’s forehead the sign of the cross.

Even as you lean over this page,
late and alone, it shines: even now
in the moment before it disappears.

The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.

He raised his hand and over the desolate earth he traced in space the sign of the dollar.

[Pain and suffering. Give me the strength
to bear it, to enter those places where the
great animals are caged. And we can live
at peace by their side. A bride to the burden

that no god imposes but knows we have the means
to sustain its force unto the end of our days.
For that is what we are made for; for that
we are created. Until the dark hours are done.

And we rise again in the dawn.]
Infinite particles of the divine sun, now
worshipped in the pitches of the night.

It may be hard to hear at times, but it is important just the same, because without it, we will never find our way through the Forest.

[It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees.] I bleed.

Come—I’ll trace you one final autumn,
and you can trace your last homecoming
into the snow or the sun.

I’m skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath my blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as if Tim trying to save Timmy’s life with a story.