Monday, December 29, 2014

Ric Carfagna

from Symphony No. 11
          (the inner recesses)


Passing from here
they speak of the transient

as if possessed
by an unnamed divinity 

heard within
the dull hum
of machine turbines
empty alleyways
crushed beer cans 

cardboard boxes
and broken windows
where a point of entry
was not foretold
and what is not seen
is part of the landscape 

at the graying edge
of the sky’s expanse


and we write in shadows” 
of a frame inside
a frame inside
a past tense

to a field
where orchids bloom
and blood has flowed 

where nomadic ghosts 
wander forest depths 
haunting echoes
of mythic writ
which holds the heart
in bondage
and shackles the flesh
to fear


passing from here
they speak of transience...



And a season ends 
in a lag of frost
to fill a valley 

darkness absorbs 
the infinity
of mathematical equations 
a deity held
at arm’s length
deaf to the silent

fate of graves
tempered by wind
above a field of weeds 

and contrails cross the sky 
without measure
to observe or
to follow a path
on a common landscape 

fleshed out
in angular ante-light 
where there is no need
to question faces
drained of emotion 

reflected in drops of rain 
falling to a porous ground


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