metonymy4u

Poetry is

an attempt
only to hold onto earth
that is transitory, once in the offering.
what we can give to
the dead earth, being living is a hint,
a gesture of air and a
slow unfolding of the rose

with our science and persuasion. you
know you feel. but does anybody else? So
cleverly then one winds
the passage of death through the
green grass that
you want to have a purpose. I

see reflection in reflection
echoes in a muddy pool
only
and not the pause of summer
that we implicitly were
promised by a mind

we thought of integrity.