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Some Kind of Beneath



Under a mountain or under

a lake, drifting with bull rushes,

or waiting like ore in black silence:

this is some kind of beneath.

 

I mostly know what the still small

Voice says, I close eyes and doors

and It speaks but now

 

It hangs voiceless as unmapped

catacombs. There is always some

terrible beauty in dense,

shrouded things.

I wait, and that is more powerful

than stone, cavern, mountain, lake;

 

it should surface

but stays speechless.

My love says things snow drifts say,

it says what a field lying fallow

is too mute to voice.

 

It says there is nothing more I can do.

There is always some terrible beauty

more powerful than stone,

cavern, mountain and lake.

This is some kind of beneath.

 

 

Category: My articles | Added by: Kristin (03.28.2013)
Views: 353 | Comments: 1 | Rating: 0.0/0
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