David H W Grubb
Words. Open Hands. Scissors.
We are not amazed by these words. They are
their own animals. They are released having
their own intervals and stars.
Open hands make passages of love. We are
given few retreats, rehearsals to remember.
Remembering thunder the roses crack.
Inside large rooms small ideas enter cold mirrors.
Floors attend. Dust recollects. Hidden from the moment
dust bites its nails.
People we have always known enter between the nettles
and flowers. It is the hair of the nettle that stings.
At night they collide.
In one room the bells of God's Sunday publish
old answers. A music of bruises. The air halts
at glass.
The scissors are waiting to carve out their options.
They cut out new days. They destroy in straight lines.
All action is tragic.
All night the wind spills.
Page(s) 46
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