Out Of A Window

 

 

That is the lonely room

the threshold of gladness

the low pouring stars

he is lowly and drinks of it

 

the order if his hand engraved

              who is death who is grass

              who is senator who is provider

              over the green belly stretched wire

 

     all the river of dead

     all the river of living

     all the moon of grief

 

 

                  who is he to be free of this

 

maybe a jewel of eyes

at the world’s end briefly seen

and un-believed

 

the tread of a cloud

the back of the ground

trembles

 

a field of lights a boundary

a universe like any mouth

wants to sing

you are a boat man in the city

you are arrows of an ancient mind

the me which is impossible

must reach me

 

I loved him correctly

and the spirit and food

dedicated to the new law

gives someone dance

properties to pay for

 

 

     sinking as low as the sea

     sleeps at night

 

     out of a window to return

 

 

and stand gazing before the picture

still asleep

 

 

a palm of a voice sweats

 

“this is where I saw the day

 defeat our voices crying”

 

I am a miniature

 

I am a glaciers’ rock

 

resting in an empty field

        

         love of all promises

         like snow by the stone

 

the turn of the sea

 

and a key

     our poems

     that are driven

       into   the

idea of neutral flesh

 

 

 

and within sight of

the whispering lake

     appears a property of silence

 

 

a forest of people

who  again are a path.

 

 

 

George J. Farrah