adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Only, a poem (or only a poem?)


Only time can walk through that door
into the overgrown jungles of your
gardened heart. Only light
can be hidden by light, and night

can only hide itself in night.
Give me your liana hand,
green as grasshoppers, green as Oz,
and wrap yourself around tomorrow.

Only time can find its way,
machete-hacking its path to cities
of emerald and gold. It sings
as it works, swinging, swinging,

to tunes from a tinny radio.
They made those in Japan, when I
was a kid. Time carried them all
off to China and my evenings

followed, swinging a baseball bat,
swinging for the fences, the hidden
night that waits above the lights.
Only time can catch that ball.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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