Thursday, January 30, 2014

The Makings of a Drum

Rise up,
you sleepy, wayworn worm,
shrug off your crusty jacket,
lift your eyeless head
to the beating sky.
Ten thousand hands have held you –
wake or sleep or dream –
and still
you seek the friction ridges
of yet another palm.
What is it, then,
that one blind snake
can teach another?

Light moves
(cautious, delicate)
between the shutter and the wall:
I have heard that daylight begins
in just such a tremulous,
uncertain commerce.
Somewhere, behind the mountain and the cloud
a sun is struggling in the nets of snow;
somewhere a heart has found 
the makings of a drum.

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