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
09/15/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp