wandering womb

© David McLean

the moon hangs fire
in the sky -
she is a wandering womb
of meanings scratching obsolescent
semantics on the surface
of the sky that seems
to be, though we know better,
or worse, now

some illusions we know of,
in a world where
when someone says “this
is a paradox” they are always
wrong - it's just natural language,
so weak, that fails feeble us,
words weak and stupid as we,
as dreams fall apart, the place
where they lived turns to absences
in this abyss a heart is;

there where time was
once, conserved in their
spirit, rueful Ruah
above us, wind on the futile
dry waters, the smell
of their absence and non-
sense is scented death -
words know us best as meaty dreams
no body ever really believed in,
dreams in eternity's hope chest
which is rather like death