#faint star

— Greg Sellers, journal entry, Notes from Neruda’s Ghost, 10 April 2018

Had I not been awake, that                                 a child then whispered in the night, humbly of a rose—a little rose asleep in the meadow amid the lupine—of a shooting-star beyond the daystar, keeping at the horizon:                    kindly, the faint star wanders— and time, perceptibly beyond her breath; time, the edge of its light, a ghost I am within her eyes, and from my hands rendered unable to reach for her, she, too, a ghost. I had loved flowers that faded, these rose petals had I placed gently on her closed eyes, upon her eyelids touched the edge of a cool petal, near until it would be felt cool in time no longer, this under one small star wandering, perhaps                                    awake, this romance of bones kept as relics—after faith and plighted troth has faded—but kept nonetheless, as the scent of rosebuds from the dust.

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[Had I not been awake]

John Daniel Thieme  (B.1944)

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weightless attempt

eight little trumpets blowing loudly a top the building screaming at clouds that pass by their casual sound distance a strain,grinder to pain dust on the world you say? or just dust on the wall glass green suit made of time worn by a fool now settled to a debit of plasma and circumference these colors thick hue be stuck in a faint view for you cover your ears and cover your mark. cover your lips and fear freedoms not the one you've lost looking at the pier faint letters and numbers on the wrist of a dog sends his bone to the other side of his camp to be buried in the yard mystery in one eye not the other problems in one hand feel the same weightless attempt to the nothing nothing the weightless attempt can hold or scold in your world of rain and nails how does your feet feel ripping open the ground bottle filled streets and sands of your life