From the sunlit room the body pulls air into the terrible dream of itself, the dream it carries, unstoppable, muted only in light. The blood chill of the self held in the dumb pulse of the planet. The hands become difficult to warm though the mind is filled with a confluence of fires. Burning insects rising from the snow. Fighting off a swarm with my cold hands, the shadows of gloves and trees consume the little flags I'd left behind to mark the spots where I might be found. How did our gods die? The news from the world is still the same. Get healthy and invest. Watch this screen; here we go. But all I see are burning hornets rising from the snow. In the ice storm I parked illegally. The world wants us to keep going. But the body is a horror to think and talk about. This is what happens while waiting for an infection to clear, for the removal of scattered beings from the highway. Electrified jewels of blood, all of us. Maybe I'll be smashed into if I don't move. When it comes time to kill a god, any season will do. The body a miracle of cracking glass in the cold. And the news from the world is still the same. Here we go. Watch this screen. Get healthy. Your god is dead. Invest. The hands galactic in the chill of self. Could we pull the cold out of each other or smother the fires beneath the skull? As we wonder, the percussion is taken from the orchestra, then string by string silenced. Then the cry from the animal, taken. The news from the world is relentless and makes itself correct. I cannot do the math on this latest collision, another plane dropped into the ocean. I cannot do the math on the citizens of the globe. Protect your god as best you can even as the blood chills, galactic, spreading itself, pulling at the nerves of the mouth. Burning hornets rise from the snow and the news from the world is still the same, the dream of the self, exactly. Invest. Get healthy. Copyright © George Eklund. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PAST IS THE PRESENT (2) by MARIANNE MOORE IT'S A QUEER TIME by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?' by FRANCIS BRET HARTE A CANADIAN BOAT SONG; WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE by THOMAS MOORE TWO WOMEN by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS BETTY TO HERSELF by EDWARD W. BANNARD TO WISDOM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |