Forgotten Ground Regained
Fugue For Toy Piano
To be old then, is this:Now is no more the edgy blade;The blood moves more deeply in the runs of fleshDown, down where the bone lurks and does not bend.(Softly sweet with incomplete furtheringsAnd fanfares -- wrongly right.)The happy horoscope of hellComes full at night in the smothering darkAnd light breaks in saving, safe, salvation.Here I am here.Here I abide.Here I linger along the long lonelyClavicle and scapula(Humerus, radius, ulna)In their antique speculation,Splendid in their august equilibrium.All the tomorrowsHave become yesterdays andWhat remains is a generousSublimation of eternity.No more the rush.No more the pull.Still and silent in the unmoving air;Cold, where there is no push of days;Deeply honied by the savage remnantsOf happiness, never lost.
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Copyright © James Murphy, 2001. This poem was also published in 2001 in The Buffalo News.
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