He wants to change the world
only because that is what art
does. He wants to stand
in a high place and draw it all
into himself –
all the mass and movement
of it, the music and time
and bleeding, surging life –
and let it sit quietly in a space
within him - near his lungs -
where it can breathe in and out
with him, bearing away the hours
and the small, animal sounds
of pain; and near his heart,
where it can find a new rhythm.
Something less a locomotive
than the sea.
And when it has rested
for the years it takes a tree
to stand and live and die,
he'll take it out and set it
softly on a table in the sun.
There are follow-up thoughts on this poem over at my blog, Metaphor.
- Kyle
Shelter by Kyle Kimberlin is licensed under a
