“There Is So Little
Here of Me”
Yes, there are the embers. We will never see
The end of this. I am so weak
Tonight. I sit and simply stare; I barely speak
In syllables. Words, last night’s diamonds, are now so many weeds, the peak
And valley of what it is we are and do. For what it’s worth, a laboured feast
Supposes a tomorrow, perhaps, but we’ve seen the last of us.
Make no mistake, there is no right when nothing’s left, no just
Conclusion when the lights go out. “But there is a truth,” you say, a beast
And some few gargoyles, and until now, we’ve not seen them; we ask
The obvious: “Where’s forever in all this dust?”
There is no peace in this virtual playground, no lasting rest,
No child to hold, no sanctuary from what lurks beneath the bed, no father’s best
To guide the troubled heart, no steel that does not rust.
And once, and then again, we come to see
What comes of denigrating blame, and raw hypocrisy.
Just yesterday I said something. There is so little here of me,
So much more of them, and yet they are so sure
Their lines are short along the network; they secure
The will with a touch, a word; they fawn on plausibility.
And while it’s rarely admitted, still there is a strain,
A stain left by the times. They must have noticed others will
Replace them at their stations as they rest the while—to fill
The same prescriptions, to sing the litany of ready refrains—
And pull their chairs a little closer for a better view
Of what seems just beyond what is; demands
Steal memory, drink the minutes and hours, and I must stand
And wait while they recuse, a little less confused,
Perhaps, but ever at their best to ask for more. They cannot see
That eternity’s demands of are less than theirs could ever be.
Photograph above by Matt Sparling