4,053 Readings | 2 Ratings

filum terminale

In the man a garden was waiting.
Ever since, a genius for accidental finds.
Capacity so old that Ilium knows it,
knows an assault upon the senses,
an excavation gives its own residue.
Quickly the man was a family, daughters
and sons in rockets from the garden
into filum, plight, kingdom. Warning, stone
embassy, share crop, swamp and autumn
overthrow. Populations were the new reality.
The garden was never constant. Over the border
came seven sisters, national inscriptions,
driving pillars, popular voices, armies
pouring in metals, the new men already actual,
their uses of fire new and myriad and impossible
to catalog. So they said to their hearts
in this fire is fire is fire. An era, an area,
a field of lava really, arable somehow, now salt flats
of a certain age, now nothing to do but sit
in a landscape of stone benches only.

Posted 11/21/11
Comments (1)
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These are great poems! I like your style.
05/10/12 4:52pm