… my terrors.

By J. K. McDowell

December 2014

 

And what about now?   There is no beginning

To this poem. My mind rearranges the color

Of the days and I see greys instead of pinks.

 

I have wasted another day checking the

Accuracy of silence. I cannot answer

To the unconscious trespasses that occurred.

 

Broad patches of color, overlapping, stacked

And repainted. A massive softness that crushes

Many notions of landscape, still life or portrait.

 

Perhaps my dreaming and my waking will mix in

Some dance. Gesture and phrase, guide and praise; links break

And form in all directions, an everlasting chain.

 

Flames abound and forests bare, J. K., we never

Tire of your tale about meeting Blake’s Tiger

And the asymmetry that saved your poetic eye.

 

A glance skyward, the dead tree gives so little shade.

The bright sun promotes the tears of our grief. Tonight,

The funeral pyre will warm us through my terrors.

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