25 May 2012
A disaster/distant line, the end of the world.
A horizontal horizon, straight,
Lies to my eyes, for it is curved,
Seeming that hopeless,
Endless walking never brings a fall,
But another ebbing, washing, tidal wall.
Stop still,
let it turn around you.
Breaking my straight line,
Then bending to worry about a small child's hygiene.
Your distant line is drawn into a three foot finite
with dirty hands.
A focus drawn down in blood ties.
Never standing up, you miss the end of the world,
Returning its dust to dust,
Worrying about the washing.
On A Mother Bending Down To Tend To Her Child • Opuss № I