Snap April 20, 2005
There are certain edges
In which the poem
Falls off the cliff.
Songs are not formed
By falling
But climbing:
The rungs on any ladder
Against a foreboding wall
On occasion
Charm the tongue
Call up the insides
In which the heart sweats
Vowel by vowel
An opening clears the throat
A rhythm is born
Cacophony is falling stone:
One turns to face
An audience below
An infinite horizon beyond.
Though itıs not cheap
Everyone gets the picture
And then you, or the poem
Or both slip
To where there is neither net
Nor hand
Just the falling
With neither ³take² nor ³leave²
One lets go interminably
Until something is something
Beyond itself
In which everything
Now comes up
As if a rising ocean
Whose surface
Is splintered by sparks
Under a rising sun
Liquid silver everywhere
Within, without
Entrenching everyone
Past & present
Some say
A baptism
Some say
Awash
Mineral & electric:
And thatıs it
You are there
For awhile
Gifted, as it were,
To take it back
To climb once more
Rung by rung
A new song
The rocks falling
Listen to it
Unfolding.
Stephen Vincent
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