The softness of folded letters
And finding some degree of similarity
Is a paradox
On this estate
Part public, part private
Partings of ways and manners
What was once important
Is smoothed over
On common ground
Where we live
Near Lovers Park
The survivor’s delicatessen
Suspended in air
Two balloons scrape our chimney
Lowry’s empty sky
There isn’t a breath
Of wind to keep us here
We run outside
And help fold the sheets
On promised land.
We look down into the void,
Its yawning indifference to the weight
Placed on both sides, barely aware,
How close to the edge we all are.
Appalled. Too afraid to let go.
And fall into what had been forgotten.
The world seems such a small place.
That, or its lights shine brightly.
And those at the front are left to burn.
She’d left such pretty things on display
And a note to explain that she may
Be gone for awhile, perhaps a day.
This is homo sapien’s last gasp
Upfront it leads the pack
Doesn’t care for
These new identities
All this adaptability
Homo sapien doesn’t
Or its own evolution
It’s lost and afraid
Grasps on to its status rock.
Its own offspring
This is no revolution
This is homo sapien’s exit
A thousand generations crash
Into their own past
Witness the birth
Of its children’s child
Defined by its survival
And its parents’ inability
We’re two different species
Fear and hope
Walking upright, forwards
Along this tightrope.
Tears are offered here
This place, our sacred stage
Where I give my name,identity
You offer yours in surprise aside
Our business, our status, what forces at play?
This prologue, these tragedies, these years brought forth
To day, this still gathering of mourners
Cry, greet, keep your lines and destiny
’til you are so familiar with them, and this strange other,
You cannot speak nor see him as anything but your brother.
Tonight we dig deep and dare
Bones and bits of resolution
To slide back down the slopes
Of this paradisaical evasion.
Ships pass through the blasted sound
Where voyeur, tenderly, lets two oceans kiss.
Whose lips are sealed with paper pound
Might steal the hungry serpent’s bliss.
King, president, and noble chief
Forge out your empty city’s spoil,
And tempt not reason, Eve, or thief,
Now your years arch over as on we toil.