by George Pfister
And somewhere in that vast,
Unsettled infancy I hear,
In silence, voices tuned in stone;
Where stone has ceased its heaving in
Slow rythyms worked to other tones.
In these telluric syllables,
A tangled metaphor unfolds
Which moulds my seething thoughts
Around the mandrell of my bones.
And on these stark encrusted shores,
Coagulate of star stuff, cold
And curdled in the void
I resonate these sullen songs,
As veins, enamored, writhe in time
And tethered crystals, timbrels tied,
In strata more harmonious
Weave melodies subdued.
A sterile gleam of starlight seeps
Among these frozen swells
Which roll in staggered strides
Against the oceanís superficial moods.
The auguries I seek in veins
Which surface, squeezed
In slow, laconic spasms,
Infuse my blood,
In its own vast
But fickle dispositions.
Poem Copyright 1994 by George Pfister
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