Sunday, February 28, 2016

On Turning

One day my brother went down to visit the sea.
He witnessed alone the sun emerge from the sea.
The waves combed the sun's yellow hair.
The waves crashed on the beach, beseeching him hither.

He turns away. He went to work, and he worked hard.
He worked at the great engine factory in Rivertown.
He's a mechanic who assembles small-block eights.
He's solitary in the uproar and tumult of engines.

At quitting time he turns away, drives home to a woman
whose body he knows like a 305's bottom end and is wild with.
Inside her is good and, when he gazes into her eyes,
he is not afraid nor is she afraid, but he turns away,

turns away solitary forever in the tumult of engines.
Listen, he's a tortoise who has lived awhile.
The waves crashing on the beach beseech him hither.
One day my brother went down to visit the sea.

He crossed the black barrier onto the beach;
black water in moonlight originates many temptations.
His arms became familiar with the currents;
a terrible encasement inhibits his spine.

He swam toward a pale light which never came near.
The uproar of engines became a sighing, a rhythm.
Turning away—his life was a turning—,
for came a time when the waves lost their rapture.

One day he went down to visit the sea.
In the darkness was a light that never came near.
Turning away, he returned to the uproar of engines
and the dusted house of a woman who was not afraid.






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