the lone blackbird
swoops from firtip to fireplace chimney
within this city,
a majestic inverted arc traced
through fullness
even as remoteness casts its blank eyes
left and right,
meeting winter’s coldness

bells on dog collars jingle
on quiet streets under vigilant wires
strung up for artificial sight
while the sun, inglorious to those inside,
works stealthily in patient obscurity

the evening brings its measure
of stillness

but have rhythms always been so busy
among we who claim consciousness
of deeper rhymes and things?
among we whose riddles fall deaf
in the nights of techno-drunk revelry?

voices rarely really meet
for their bonding, meeting to absolve
of its unharpied sins
our distance to each other
in the melting pot of proximity
above this din of screensome fascination

in the tales told of today,
who will hear the real truth’s secrets?
who will find in them
the empathy of unvirtual intimacy?


© J. Celan Smith