Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Easter Island

"the rain falls in long drops"

The stone figures, cobbled and clobbered, lie about.
Their gaze had been correct, but now, who knows?
We're mute. They're mute. Their makers are gone.
They dream now the silent dreams of old age,
when time creeps past and then waits on our dotage.
If only we'd chosen this or that or even none.
We rage, like Jonah watching as his gourd grows,
Our fate curled in theirs, their failure to get out.

All around them, a sea of infinities & fish uncountable.
But boats? Eh, what about a boat? No boat.
No wood. No will to turn the wood to use until…
Wood was the unseen way, as ordinary as air.
As hard as the sun, and always there.
Light speckles the rock. We could have our fill
Of light, if we would. The sea is a moat,
but sand and soil don't make a castle.

When there's a ship on the horizon, the heads wake and moan.
The hundred remaining stragglers shake to the sound.
Our heads! It can only be our heads! They wander down
To the beach to see: the dot is a ship, someone thought.
It could be a pelican. It could be a log. We're not
Sure anymore. Each time we check, some drown.
Now, there's no torch left to light. So, we pound
A drum that leewards is as quiet as a stone.

The stars above are quiet ruins. Closer, and almost white
Are shells of mussel, clam, and oyster - empty
Homes that once had been as safe as bone.
If this silence says anything, it's that we're all silent
In the same way. Starlight, foam on sand, sea creatures that went
Away. And "away" means "dead," no matter how much stone
you inscribe, or brain coral hiding in the sluggish sea
Says resemblance is fraud. Sometimes it holds tight.

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