I have easily shut my life,
when unwilling to explain and
I will not be back.

I traveled the forever city night beyond.
Acquainted with experience, the rain in my eyes:
frail gesture dropped in silence mysteriously.
I cannot outwalk the watchman
interrupted on the small city lane.

Somewhere, I have passed your eyes -
stopped - your touch too near,
your power compels me; I stood still,
suddenly, intense fragility.

You always say good-by
and call me back,
enclose me with the night.
Rendering your death
as when the heart of a rose imagines snow.

Gladly have I closed at unearthly height
what it is you open, petal by petal.
I looked down when far away.
The texture of your saddest wish,
(the colour of the voice of your eyes)
a deeper cry from another street,
with each breathing nobody understands.

Everywhere beautifully touching,
carefully descending.

I have walked out to be close.
I have perceived a world in which
wrong equals right, when furthest time
uncloses me as Spring opens
and further still, this flower skillfully opens in me.

I have never traveled back, because
they are countries whose slightest look
proclaimed me acquainted with
death - neither far away nor against the sky.

Something closes.
I do not know this myself,
as when we are nothing to her luminary first rose.

Somewhere I have never gladly been.
One clock, in any rain,
the sound of feet,
things which come over houses,
or which have their fingers in rain -
one rain that has such hands.

I have been about that most of all.


[Cut-up poem, original texts:
Acquainted with the Night, Robert Frost
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond, e.e. cummings]

11/27/2013

Posted on 12/13/2013
Copyright © 2024 Gira Bryant