Unseen
for Ron Slate
The hand is a bird stretches
Past a dozen blocks of memory
Every old one of them a prison
Cardboarding a curled collection
A friend had written a poem
About the skin of days, there's
Nothing that we can't recycle
And no tough bread we won't eat
A chipped cup sits upon a rock
No need to know whether the sea
Crashes or sunshine is in the hills
On this other side of knowing
The husbandry of our souls
Can't be easy listening to silence
To the cant of the tip of the slip
The wavering moment of it
An old book lies upon the shelf
Its eyes closed against the sun
A snake bathes against the rock
Filling up, emptying cold blood.
© 2011 Rob Schackne
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