Sam Rasnake

Two Poems from Four Colors

            – after Krzysztof Kieślowski


It’s a river of dead leaves
in the cold of turning fables –
where a cup of steaming tea,
its bag in a swirl, waits.

The whole notes are sung,
the world inverted,
and the love is made.

Like the puppeteer’s hands
that refuse to hide or the stir
of wings, something disappears
from me today, something
lets go its darker elegance
for the insurgent grace
of a determined heart.


And only this remains when
the living burns away leaving
pigeon shit on the shoulder as
a reminder that humiliation is
the essential purpose of flight
not discovery not forgiveness
and certainly not a love that
will not have its way or find
solution for its dilemma for
that hunger for the other to
defer capitulate succumb to
hold on so when the story
begins there is black then
sound and only then an image

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