It could be like that at times:
squeeze of a hand, fellow-feeling,
sympathy, shoulder-tap – saying,
“Trust the impossible world!”
Just before the balance shifts
things turn chaotic, confused;
(confusing the abstract Real
with its suspect dependency
the executioner – gun in hand,
complicit, deadly – shakes
the earth and leaves lose
their way among the seasons:
winter’s white drafts enframe us;
thought goes blank; the eye
in the eye turns opaque
as obsidian); men go under,
life swerves downward
and inward toward nullity:
that which no longer believes
things in-between upsets
the balance and the truce:
outside and inside, crosswise
pass each other, disturbed, lost.
When relations shoot the gap,
touch the visible dark, a seal
against day’s brash light; things
go North, suffer the sun’s burden,
rush the turbulent lights of dawn.
A sudden reprieve from the harsh
news of reality brings one back
to that inner order of one’s being;
a staying hand, a gesture
that says it all in defiance of silence,
bringing memory and pain to a pitch,
revealing our darkness: bare and violent.
Can justice be balanced in such acts as these?
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.