There is a keening
On the wind, a kind of clear
Blue wanting that knows how
To use a can opener on the
Air, so that it can tear silver
Lines into the heart. Oh, there
Will be no blood, for blood is
A veil and time, a great bird
High over the roofs of this town.
We thread our way past the crowds
To discover a land drenched with moon,
Its collection of owls silently winging
Out, over the edge of the lake. There
is an idiot’s song, a lament caught
On the floor of the night. How big
It all seems, the words, the voices
From the sink of the city. It is
As if we were not to find a way
Here, as if God himself were out
For the day inventing Christmas
All over again, so that it might have
A different sound, perhaps that of many
Children, rather than the small golden
Voice two thousand years old.
When we arrive home, well
Fed and slightly tired, the block
Is strung with colored lights and
Singing can be heard from windows,
Laughter and a crisp of first frost
In the air. It must have been
Like this over and over again,
So far we have come knowing such
Things, so far we have left them behind.
BEING AS MANY AS LEAVES
Oh this is peaceful.
This light stays when all
Else fades. It is a serious
Pursuit, worthless, yes,
Useless, oh certainly and I suppose
Even boring to some people,
Those ill on the world, drunk
On its ‘nobody’s a long time’,
Sentiment and that heritage
Of, ‘if anybody even attempts
To think deeply about something
They are the sick ones.’ And here
We are driven toward a beautiful
But terrible forest full of dead
Souls unable to be serious about
Anything except the executioner
Returning to darkness and the murder
That goes on in this perfectly
Listen to them growling.
Let’s go get ourselves born
So we don’t have to deal with these
Things that feel darkness and ignorance.
Fury, boys, let’s give them fury, real FURY.