And records-call them music
if you will-we add contempt
to each release. A hurried trade
speeds some last knick-knacks on their way.
And two more, aged twelve and eight,
we consign to weekends, holidays;
ourselves to minutes parked in driveways
watching parentage slip away.
The bed, old scarred four-poster,
hides like an embarrassment upstairs
because after many turns and twistings
it will not squeeze through the bedroom door.
Dorin Tudoran
A CROSS
Bringer of our death
you've taught me of late
to behold this Milky Way of lies
ending in two blue gates
both deep as the infinite
and just as spacious
looming before us like icons
each bubbling with countless nations
Rise again, you staunch bringer
of earthquakes and ruin!
I want to call you one last time
and carve for you a cross of rain.
