Do Not Astound Me
With My Own Perfection

the clock winds —
it is a somber hole to be filled
for some,
for others life is too long,
its immensity an ivory tusk
carried into an ancient boneyard
where
memories are left behind

and the river?
what can be
said about the river except
that it flows, knots and bouquets
of chrysolite empty into the
sea and the sea calls
into the sunrise

the earth is a gallery, pieces of art
on exhibition,
destiny and the sky inhale and exhale ashes,
like children we all fall down,
laughing

spring comes on forever and the winter
of our hopelessness lies asleep
in dreams of perfection,
tender babies we hold in our hands
like burnt offerings