4. I speak these words directly into his yawn Open cave of his dark almost kind of fire-lit mouth And the shadows there my words form these shadows In the back of the hero's throat A world we applaud where chained to the ground We watch the trees walk past us. There are other ways to describe the year: Seasons of The hero's boredom. 5. Where the horror is comparison, honor sees Hands in the trees instead of leaves— Honesty asks why the applause is so quiet When the wind blows so hard— Breath is the atmosphere at utmost extreme Where the lungs are flowers—thought the dew— The sun doubts everything, a general statement In whose light the hero sees these helpless things Beg mercy, beg darkness for obscurity— We do not comprehend the awe, it comprehends us— When leaves fold in halves they look sleepy Like eyes, but these eyes are fists
Copyright © 2010 by Dan Beachy-Quick. Used by permission of the author.