A Trying Song
Reaching above the tops of trees
towards things other than they seem,
my fingers meet burning light
from a distant and risen sun;
I notice nothing else besides
the hollow toll of an aeroplane, glinting over high-
a satellite's cold enlightenment, passing above the sky.
An empty pain spurs retreat.
Amplitudes and frequencies
echo thoughts like stale clouds
pushed along by a stale wind,
sickly shifting here and there, where once they danced
and despaired, licking sweetly
across Promethean scenes and
through Gomorrahn flames.
Perhaps they were tired, even then.
I want to reach again above the trees
and grab a wind yet come to be
with pale fleshy fingers
(the tips have made it),
now burning in the sun,
grasping at echoes faded.
I am trying, for you and me.
I apologize for the Mangum "borrowing"