Question 4
I don’t hear trumpets
when the reckoning comes,
just the silent, soft sound
of footsteps.
We all need more than one week
to grow, more time to shield
our remains from the soil
and bury our aging bones.
Where will you be buried?
In the return of graceless dancers
I will find myself torn
from their aching kneecaps,
spread wildly across
the bugle player’s path
and cleaning the mess
from an unsanctioned riot.
– Aaron Kent
Answer 4
[New Moon]
Sunday 23 July 2017, 10.45
It began so quietly and darkly only a softness to the shadow that soothed, not menaced. And here I was here lulled into the talk, and opening an the eye to the inner histories and layered desires histories I’d been balancing in the heart. Soft and dark, you inveigling We can only hope for earthshine at a time of absent of earthshine and so inveigled, I sang and spread slipped the message as as sure as wildfire but black here it flows, crisp light fingernail tearing the open the from first to and last dark and how does it appear slips slipped like a fingernail’s ragging raging the dark, and how does it has appeared I can only this ragged graceless path – from first to, against the dark, last. an at it is a graceless account. an unspeakable I would think it unspeakable
– Lavinia Singer
