05-09-2018, 08:23 PM
The Beginning of History
Who can predict how the wind will blow?
Who can predict the coming of our lord?
The world is quiet tonight.
Even the electric fan's constant whir
bleeds into the warm lights,
the curtains' motion to that gentle wind
at one with the surrounding wall.
My body lies on the bed, waiting for dinner,
perhaps, for a knock on the door.
Above the black clock
and the white ceiling
and the red roof
and the thin mist
and the clouds freshly burst
and the vacuum of space
and the moon
and the planets
and the fixed stars,
angels hold their breath.
My beard smells of chestnut flowers.
A termite flies into one of the lights.
Its wings tear off. Its body
plummets into the floor.
I feel my chest
rise and fall.
You blow the horn.
Who can predict how the wind will blow?
Who can predict the coming of our lord?
The world is quiet tonight.
Even the electric fan's constant whir
bleeds into the warm lights,
the curtains' motion to that gentle wind
at one with the surrounding wall.
My body lies on the bed, waiting for dinner,
perhaps, for a knock on the door.
Above the black clock
and the white ceiling
and the red roof
and the thin mist
and the clouds freshly burst
and the vacuum of space
and the moon
and the planets
and the fixed stars,
angels hold their breath.
My beard smells of chestnut flowers.
A termite flies into one of the lights.
Its wings tear off. Its body
plummets into the floor.
I feel my chest
rise and fall.
You blow the horn.