Friday, October 31, 2008

Dawn to work

Where is left to head but concluding ruin-
would it only happen here; at least have one thing
follow through to end, if it be only ruin,
where all-else-ends have been contracepted. The garden
between two buildings, like some protesting bleat,
only re-stokes the madness of delayed decay
while grated windows, wire, panelling
surface whore-like to an aching sun-peak;

for morning lifts its face on Hastings Street
and all things, all people move to no
beginning, like a stretch of conveyor belt
in the gaping gravel quarry, alone,
burrs slowly all day in the wide empty gorges.
How sunlight can be so sickening, changed
by what it hits, is a mystery of sin's range:
how our sinfulness gets what it wants,
in an unrelenting ease at unease
until we puncture it for real light, light that heals

as we abide by repentance's choice, costing pain.

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