Flames are not so much silence as a dust
on the all. What more could they be? Blue flies
bottle around my sight and slowly squeeze
life from the remaining years. They accept
their brief sojourn as a blanket of air.
I wait for my mind to fill up with tales
of Jesse James or Al Capone, or what fails
to incite a poem about them- either/
or. I squeeze the muse, again, and wonder
the small broken windows of poems that were
possible. Then I daze. Not long after
a ray pokes inward. I turn and agree
with the insects whose flights outline, with awe,
the silhouette of your perfect body.
on the all. What more could they be? Blue flies
bottle around my sight and slowly squeeze
life from the remaining years. They accept
their brief sojourn as a blanket of air.
I wait for my mind to fill up with tales
of Jesse James or Al Capone, or what fails
to incite a poem about them- either/
or. I squeeze the muse, again, and wonder
the small broken windows of poems that were
possible. Then I daze. Not long after
a ray pokes inward. I turn and agree
with the insects whose flights outline, with awe,
the silhouette of your perfect body.
Stan Brakhage, X-Ward
