The Blade

Sadness shines like a kite,

A blade, a stone, a cabinet.

Too fatigued for words, you search for meaning in the emptying well of your brain.

No, that's not it. That's not it.

No?

You need a wall on which to hang a lot of pictures.

Pictures.

Pictures stop the world from bleeding, and paint is an antidote to all that is shed.

The answer?

The answer lies at the back of my eyes, where I cannot see it.

You say: "The world is food I cannot eat,

Cannot grasp, cannot take."

Such cruelty no longer surprises me.

I would like to spend a lazy summer afternoon, seeped in hot, sweet iced tea.

Under the grass, inside the glass, and above,

In the exhaust

Where everybody knows that a good song starts, must always start, in pain.

Blades of grass shoot away to form a giant drape that hangs over the world in thirty, forty flaps.

Fifty flaps, and more.

Good-bye, blade.

You are so high up and floating, like rain clouds in the sky.