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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535540" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>As Dew On Grass Sleeves No Longer Stiffening In The Wind - Moments From The Orange World - After Reading Kenneth Patchen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">.<br>for Bruce and Patti<br>happily singing in their chains by the sea...</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>'...do not grieve, therefore, those who are lost to you; <br>they were ever so to themselves...'<br>- Kenneth Patchen - from 'There Is One Who Watches' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I've lost my way and wait for signs.<br>Distant signal fires indicate 'wait here'.<br>No gate ahead. The iron dogs hungrily await<br>all who approach edges of the orange world.<br>Best to settle in, grin at stinking Death who is<br>sinking into the ground winking at me as if to say, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You will soon sink. You will soon sink.<br>Who do you think you are or were? <br>Step forward if you dare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've observed how furred things give up without much complaint.<br>They've grabbed often enough and so Death grabs back.<br>They sigh or call out in their animal way, Son of a b*tch! <br>but in the end they relent and they sink leaving only their<br>pink tongues spread out over the dawn as if to say...as if to say...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I blink in the dark looking at edges distant fire.<br>I wink back at Death who has left only a bony hand<br>on the ground where He waits just beneath.<br>How trite He is but it does the job, conveys His trap clearly.<br>When dawn tongues awake licking dew from my face, <br>and my fears, I shall raise both my hands, too, <br>as if to say...as if to say...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And flaunting these two hands to Death's one, and with flesh, <br>I shall walk away the way I came having done with burning signs<br>and a night's work of waiting, my presence taunting the dogs, <br>Death baiting as if He has forgotten one hand upon the dirt.<br>We have flirted, Death and me. Not the kind of company<br>I like to keep preferring furred things to winking bones, <br>Death's head all teeth and no whistle. But I earn my pay.<br>I walk away, my own tongue licking. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can barely contain myself arriving back at camp. <br>She waits dreaming shyly in our tent, a Bedouin soul bending <br>gently over the wells in Her keeping on Gentler Hill. <br>I shall lick Her face then. I shall not tell Her how<br>I have survived the night with Death at my feet, the taunting<br>signals over there at the edges, iron dogs alert.<br>I shall not hurt Her with knowledge of this orange world, <br>all the dark things within it. I shall not take Her roughly<br>to me but softly settle beside Her where she breezes as dew<br>on grass sleeves no longer stiffening against the wind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I shall bring Her in as a fisherman brings <br>in his boat softly singing a fisherman's tale, <br>his throat a song-sore nocturne rocking night waves, <br>beacons ashore flaring where his Love lies sleeping <br>awaiting conjectures, his folding, folding into Her <br>gently suspiring guesses -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Is my love away at sea, at sea, <br>dark as wine presses as he will<br>surely press me? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O drink from the wells I tend -<br>I earn my pay - and away with<br>ocean roaming! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Distant lights demur sure in their beckoning.<br>Sudden he turns singing boat and heart to shore, <br>starfish near at hand yearning beyond foam..<br>Dawn tongues slowly raise up land-sunken houses, <br>stilled curtains in darkened windows not yet stirring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nearing, he shall not shake the dew from his cloak but gather<br>as much as he can to bathe Her - feet, hands, those parts<br>Death cannot sink into, but he can. And life will continue on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As will the other, his lost brother of the inland tent<br>now gratefully at rest forgetting the ever orange world, <br>edge fires signaling unseen until dark, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and then the dogs, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and Death's hand, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and then back to work again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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for Bruce and Patti
happily singing in their chains by the sea...


'...do not grieve, therefore, those who are lost to you; 
they were ever so to themselves...'
- Kenneth Patchen - from 'There Is One Who Watches' 


I've lost my way and wait fo..."></div>
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