  Sword The Hindoo raises his arms And holds them level with his shoulders Till they become still and permanent, like horizons. But I prefer to stumble Into abrupt harmonies That must ever be flung aside. With one quick slash I cut Lips of death upon an expressionless breast, And a vermilion sincerity Pardons the sophistry of flesh. It is better to make And leave the moments of a poem Than to erect an ingenious pedestal Upon which blindness solemnly squats. Philosopher Men’s tongues are slow, and they have made you To avenge their hidden shame at this. You give startling girdles to virgins, Red beards to thieves, Because the tongues of men are slow And revel in your quicker rhythms. An idiot whirls you around his head And persuades himself that he is swift. Imagination drenches his eyes And he spreads himself flat on your blade. Sword All of your words are concentrated Into the glittering censure of my blade! Philosopher Life wraps its layer of touch around one, Like a haunting blanket Smothering the taunting lips of a child. Curving their fingers around your hilt Men strive to purchase the triumph Of an imagined escape. I teach them plaintively to weave Schemes of consolation On the broad texture of their lives. You tell them to slash the fabric, Reaching into the black space underneath it. You are not a symbol of cruelty. An innocent impatience Sharpens the comedy of your blade. Sword Men have only two choices— To worship idols or mimic fireflies, And I lend my strength to each choice, Teaching them to abandon The harlequin raptures of words. Philosopher You bring them yearning turbulence, And I, a quick-tongued refuge. Silence will pardon both of us. |
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