The Same Old Figurative
Yes, the world is strange, riddled with difficult sciences
and random magic. But there are compensations, things we do
perceive: the high cries and erratic spirals of sparrows,
the sky gray and now giving in to the regular rain.
Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation
that every now and then makes for beauty. Or disaster.
Listen. The new figures are simply those of birds,
the whole notes of their now flightless bodies snagged
on the many scales of the city. And it’s just some thunder,
the usual humming of wires. It is only in its breaking
that the rain gives itself away. So come now and assemble
with the weather. Notice the water gathering on your cupped
and extended hands—familiar and wet and meaningless.
You are merely being cleansed. Bare instead
the scarred heart; notice how its wild human music
makes such sense. Come the divining
Let us examine the wreckage.