our business isn't done
everyone leaves a dangling end
to trip up on as if humiliation could
be felt by egotists
what fool would expect a fool land on his ass
and suddenly have a shining farhead (joke intended)
I can't even believe I'm dribbling out these lame
little bon mots not so bon and hardly mots
but good enough to say what a way
to sign off as I exit the gate through which I entered
and look one last earthly time at the black shape of a house
in a field blocking an increasingly smaller area
of deep blue twilight and bright blots of planet (Venus--
no--Jupiter) in the deep blue twilight I've been awaiting
my entire life--how I love twilight--how much more love the night--
the soothing stars dappling the Hanged Man as he leaves the Wraecca
on his road and follows St. Milito on another dance...
Content (c) 2008-2009 Philip Milito.
No comments:
Post a Comment