My wife in bed by eight,
Asleep by ten.
Now fireworks are going off like bombs.
Earlier she thought it was the wind.
My thoughts range…
Move through,
Sift memory,
My life,
The compost heap of failed attempts
At living right.
The righteous cling to hollowed empty forms.
The young abandon what they’ve never known,
Believers now
In this religion
Of apparent truth,
The ghost that matter
Cannot exorcise.
Apparently, there is no other choice.
We hear the boom and ascertain a source.
My heart remembers and my mind recalls.
There is no reason to be otherwise.
She took a scalpel as I held her hand.
We cut the reason from our severed brow.
Youth’s sorrow never may abate
Until we’ve loved
And held that infant child,
Until we,
Like him,
Have given up our lives.
Art and Anthroposophy 