Saturday, August 25, 2007

Cold Shoulder

if it is peaceful,
I do not mind.
But this silence
is an uneasy punishment,
a wary dance of fear with anger.
Sidle left,
swift turn right,
around each other carefully.
I am all fear.
And the Silence,
heavy and dim,
sticking so thickly to our atmosphere
Why do you call it down?
It is your one weapon,
your servant to inspire my fear.
It is hard to love you
when you do this.


So many secrets,
so many metaphors--
a quest to hide the immediate meaning
of one's words.
For, like Sylvia Plath's neighbors and relatives,
everyone fears that I write of him,
demanding to see, to hear,
things that are not yet finished.


Symbols are inescapable.
There is a fiddle in me,
and it fiddles recklessly
for the world, for the devil,
for the end of all things.
Over and over, this
vain contest, this
disheartening charade--
We get in too deep, too soon,
and then, there is no rescue.
There is no power we have
that cannot be taken.