with darkening age
to a burnt out rage
consigned.
But swept on an ocean
of tides set in motion
by light
in a brilliance of air
with clear eyes aware
of sight.
Until the strands
between my hands
were red
and I came to a stop
to let time drop
down dead.
THE RUIN OF THAT HOUSE
I speak of the ruin of that house
as the worst, for in it lived two blind
creatures, blind husband and blind wife,
each trying to lead the other out,
and finding a ditch by the door.
If there were trees, they heard them crash,
when the ground split under their hands
and knees. But it was not of the storm
or quake they thought, or of themselves—
but of the fruit, and how to avoid
both barb and thorn, each terrified
in his heart at his own helplessness
to save the best.
Except in their speech
where they bitterly laid the blame
on one another for the loss and waste,
since neither had fulfilled the need
for a house that was deep and broad,
founded on rock; secure and strong
against fire and flood, rust and moth;
a house uncorrupt by thief or sword,
yet so full of treasure that it gleamed,
with light enough to see, mote and beam,
the hypocrites of their common doom.