WINTER SOLITUDE
Funeral follows funeral ---
the second line between ---
resentment segregates the tombs.
The universe is wrinkled
with the whims and the winds.
Saints cut of silk, frantic like the turf,
wanting terror to touch down,
explore lucid leaves of grass
evermore,
for the asking
is nevermore.
The universe is wrinkled
with the whims of mothball hours.
Time. An old man erect,
folding the canals of his bones.
An old woman, pious,
rigid in her rapture on an urn,
grinning toothless passion.
The universe is wrinkled
with the whims of worried days.
Words copulate not
none the less but more.
Salvation burns
where peace be still
is still to be.
The universe is wrinkled
with the whims of stinging seconds.
Sounds, jazz iced down,
signal the ending
always beginning
time. Sufferings in ascetic hymns
wash. Absolute soap for the soul.
Primate wings renounce a name.
Yes, seeded clichés. Pungent despair
in the fragrant dust. Flowers rust.
Gravity marks wasting time.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr.
December 21, 2011