Call It Silence When

Memory is dry.  Logic fails its own

Regret.  There is no sea; water is wet.

You can’t turn back now, where

Language faults the punctuation.

In place of answers, more questions.

But their shadow and accoutrement

Of mortared fossils, what then our air,

What is our ground but strands

In its strive.  What does time reach?

Gone beyond the point of bone or bloodied

Where ground is time, muddied,

The spine of water is ground

Or muddied or dying on its bone.

Tautologically, a river is memory

Flowing.

With its fruit.  Water is memory

How like a root is the tree

These rocks, this syntax, that leaf,

Is beyond me.  Alone,

Despite the warnings,

Expulsion as outcome is how

We were to foresee

Other impulses.

Of a sudden you want to explore

Before distraction sets in.  All

Pursue meaning a short distance

Is what I’m thinking.  You can only

Know no particular context

And rise.  And fail.

We need to redefine regret.

We need to redefine regret.

And rise. And fall.

No particular context but you know

what I’m thinking.  You can only

pursue meaning a short distance

before distraction sets in.  All

of a sudden you want to explore

other impulses.  But how we

were to foresee

expulsion as outcome

despite the warnings

is beyond me.  Alone,

these rocks, this syntax, that leaf,

how like a root is the tree

with its fruit.  Water is memory.

Tautologically, a river is memory flowing,

or muddied, or drying on its bone.

The spine of water is ground,

where ground is time, muddied,

gone beyond the point of bone or bloodied

in its strive.  What does time reach?

What is our ground but strands

of mortared fossils, what then our air

but their shadow and accoutrement?

In place of answers, more questions,

how language fails the punctuation.

You can’t turn back now, where

there is no sea; water is wet.

Logic fails its own regret.

Memory is history.

© 2007 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved