The Pilgrimage: Part 26 / Phillip Neal Tippin
The moon held forth
On his dream of day
To any eyes still awake.
The noc-turne’s golden whole
Note holds a measure rapt
At that rich gloaming tone,
Orb of an evening rising
Through octavian heights
And leading his natural minors
Up and over the clefts of night
Silence is not complicity.
It is the sound of the human scale
Encountering the no one.
That crooked crow,
The one with the limp,
Glowers over the fast
Food splattered asphalt.
By no means human
Yet through Human
Means you may live
At the human scale
With everything.
The practice of a poem,
Over time, grows slowly
Into its line.
Regardless of our strength
We just sit stock staring
Into the bright palantír,
Discriminating none
The terrors beyond
Each enthralls, entreats
Our weakness to rest
In those with the strength
To turn it all to their minds.
darklybrightpress.com 