Can we just stay here in the space where our loud laughing won’t disturb the mausoleum of St. Peter, three times denying the purple iris, can we hobble the horses to the hitching post in front of the post office and let everything fall out of where we put it to be delivered, can we call the night choir of crickets down here to make the road home sing while the lightning bugs show us the way to a happy wages of sin so then we will not dare cry when the trumpet hits the high note of getting up in the morning, going back to be counted by the straw bosses, and to count them, making note of how sure this Earth is, this world of work we define ourselves, as long as we know it will need us, as long as guarantees paint themselves against the invisible ley lines pulling mountains together, summoning snow caps in California over the broad brown hills laying up to hear God’s whims like fallen but contented angels. Copyright © 2016 Afaa Michael Weaver. Used with permission of the author. |
No comments:
Post a Comment