The Land of Was
(cont and fini)

all that used to be
is just on
the other side of that
steel door,
beyond
the inch, thick glass
which neither bullet
nor caress
shall ever penetrate,
past the slots for feeding,
the hole for peering-in
over the chain-link fence
topped with delicate arcs
of razor wire
quietly slicing curves
of eternity....
out there is
the land of was.
in here
is the slow
drip of day
stuck to day
with night slotted in-between
but never moon,
never star
all these my feet
can sing
and pace out
for you
all we ever knew,
hoped, did
in bleak patterns of
back and forth
and up and down
the tense is past
and all declensions
neatly fall
into bins
of steel and gray.
the days drop
like discarded
metal things...
one bin called
" was"
and one called
" them"

I have had all day
The sky (such a nuisance !)
Sobbing at the thickset window,
Locked away,
My tongue was insolent
Touching rust which once
Was glorious burnished steel
Guaranteed and backed by
Ironclad warranty
To keep this forked thing
From all places
Softly you.

Luther whispers here
Of monasterian truths;
The stake as ultimate witness
And time, the endurance test.
The Holy Ghost wears gray
These days and moves
Soundless lips
Up and down, to and fro
This gut of corridor.
To the left lies nunnery,
To the right the stream.

All morning I paid homage
To this suffering sky.
My tongue touched the dust
Of rusting memory.
I am fine, of course
Of course.
Thanks so much for
Asking.
But, . . .
If it's not too much,
To you, wounded sky
A word or three ?
For it is suffering
And will not
Will not
Will not
Let this prisoner be.

dickens
16 October 2000
Spokane County Jail
Awaiting Trial
56th birthday


This poem is for
Loveisarose - MS_allthat - LLt - Mystree - Barbara