BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

A DOZEN NEW POEMS! - #12 of 12

Well ... here we are, twelve of twelve ... that wasn't SO bad, was it? Sorry to clog up your Friends List ... but this doesn't happen too frequently, ya know? I know that I haven't been posting very much in my L.J. of late, but who wants to hear me whining about crap like missing the bus, or not getting any breakfast, or falling asleep when I should be working? Hell, I have the poems behind cut tags so that folks won't have to actually deal with them when I do get around to posting the little buggers here!

                    BITS OF DUST IN CORNERS SWEPT

                    this fine dissection
                    does not suit the night,
                    nor does the filling
                    with myriad insistence
                    place to place
                    minute to minute
                    tracking down the seconds
                    until stress alone is left

                    none of these needs
                    are ours to claim,
                    we are but a means
                    to others' ends,
                    we a method
                    in the achievement
                    of their goals, not ours,
                    no, never ours

                    our eyes bleed time,
                    our wounds spill out
                    durations's torrent,
                    a carnal flush that wells
                    as readily as blood
                    in streams of loss
                    wasted in these hours
                    never to be retrieved

                    we press the boundaries
                    to try to savor
                    a second here,
                    a moment there,
                    a brief impression
                    of a beautiful eve
                    in the lateness of summer
                    but never can connect

                    all our clocks are broken
                    internal, external,
                    all run against the world's;
                    the sweeping hand of demand
                    crushes the subtle flow,
                    leaving us drained of life,
                    empty husks in rising wind,
                    bits of dust in corners swept

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

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