At Midnight

In moonlight, silvered, treeless hills
Are backs of beasts, and my protectors,
Circled. I'm the crippled calf within. I
Will be saved, though, to what end,
No moon, no hill, can know. I do not
Profit as a prophet. My words are too
Clear. The monastery's many monks
And nuns, who labor to bring meaning,
Muddled meaning, from each other's
Spat-out indications of “authentic
Feeling” find me useless. Nothing here
Is code, and, in the village, oh, the
Dreadful clods, the beasts from whom
My beasts protect me, pass. All of their
Ears are plugged. They twitch to signals
From the corporate zone, which, in its
Wisdom, profits from its warnings:
“Pay no mind to crippled calves. Do
Not ascend the hills.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 44 times
Written on 2010-04-17 at 13:21

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