by Michael Brett

The sunlight through the church window
Reminds us we are not angels
But that a future-like an unseen coast-
Is rushing towards us, as angels might,
And will not be divided by a little boat's prow
Nor anything: no clear idea
Nor weapon we might raise against
War's well-funded asceticism,
Its disordered sainthood.

It seems within us already
There is a kind of bruise or blood tide
Rising inside us saying 'aha-
You can choose nothing.
Only we can choose for you;
Only you are nothing,
Just a kind of bystander at your own dissolution
For tomorrow you shall not die
But shall be dissolved in stages:

The mind's superstructure
Then the frame of self
All calling out together in the winds
That have no king, no leather bag
To unite them.

Every clock hand presses you to this
With the insistence of a surgeon
Showing you x-rays, an astronomer
Who plots progress on a chart,
An accountant perhaps.

Copyright © 2011 - Michael Brett
Published: 12/22/11   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem