You wouldn’t know it could feel so redundant— the wolfish starlings plunder the grass and nothing burns. Big Sur. We came here to rest. The coast, a color. The thought of nothing, the blue middle of my life— A cliff side and a footpath down to the small beach. And fire, there a cold wind. Long waves the whole year—restless, leafy and metallic, the brightness of ash. The sunlight like something from Tarkovsky, one pointless, small ambition in which passion turns into a terrifying tenderness. Deep cargo in the hull; heartache. And somehow you knew you should light the match, like a person condemned to whom the starlight is another brief monument to what is fallible. Your life, little fireling, little warlike starling, flickering indignantly, all erotic umbrage. Broken wing in my hand. Pathological, shy flame, I will care for you. Little shape of my fate, my certain failure. What is desire, if not this burden. Dearth and glut cupped in your hands: wild, deadheaded, and blue. Copyright © 2016 Miguel Murphy. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment