Prism

Locked inside of a changing geometry
We did not dance, no voice did ring;
There was no spirit left to sizzle
And no ballads to sing.

We’d barely recognize the pier, the air
(The air a breath away from vacuum dead),
Twelve stacking blocks along the shore
And silver crescent arrowhead

Are alien like Saturn’s dressing lace
To our mouths agape, licking the glass
That sliced the world in two. I dearly hope
This silent storm will pass.

We caved away into the morphing corners
And scrubbed our fingers bloody-bloody black:
Down, down, and down — the open windows
Would shut me off and force me back.

With nothing ever to be birthed of them
The streets swelled down into the underground
And sadness, polishing and ravenous,
Rained, forcing out no sound:

No chatter, rumble, bark or angry growl
Will sway the delicate sharp nature of the prism.
Down! red-eyed, water-fresh and tender creatures
With all too less a schism.

***

So used to aquarium bubbles and feed
— Off our feet, off our feet —
Is it not best to stumble back inside
To quiet down and hide, and hide?

Calm, wise shepherd,
Calm your mind,
We are fitted to your side
Like an alleyway of pines,
Like a traffic plaid with lines.
We are here
And here to stay,
Fine with following your way
Forever.