Matt Denis

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Ars Poetica

they are nothing, the Autumn
and
tiny feet that tread steadily toward
undisclosed locations
(drenched in nouns and verbs, prepositions and phonetics,
the metaphysical flowers of dark streets)
they are nothing
unwritten verses, vapor on your fingers
as you trace the World on a rain-streaked window
we are alone! we are alone!
we sweat and bleed
we move through the rain, disjointed, cast aside,
the remnant cries of a thousand fallen before us
“life is very short and
the sky oh so very long”
but
in the infinite particles that
collect and quiver on our shoulders
a cadence is born;
out of the conjunction of a long ago state of the World
and the shimmering puddles of well-tread streets
poetry appears
the sky’s oblivion beats suddenly within our chests;
a chorus of birds rests upon our ribcage to sing those first, tentative lines
gently, with frail fingers we touch immortality
and with restless souls, we begin to dream

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