Call It Black (But Let It Be True) Poem by Hunter Hansen

Fabrications
On a theme
And its variants

Thoroughbred horses
Driving fire
And chariots

The crystal, glassy showers fall like knives amid a garden of imaginary flowers
Falling clear
Falling upon green
A quartz quarry broken into, revelation on a small scale of what depth is like
The marble pit flooded, the long leap downward, is a memory borrowed and an image enjoyed
Falling so far

A sphingine mirage roars in the middle of the desert, cornered with change
As the fire of the sun burns by day and melts the candlesticks by night
Bring on the chimes, the bells, and the sleeping spells; let them ring!
If the sky could be no more silver, let it all be painted gray

Black skies
With silver clouds
Would be
So beautiful

Compare the wind to cats with nine tails
Of comfort rather than torture, like that bony tail
Rubbing into one’s eyes, forcing them shut
Like an icy wind freezing the face, lulling it to sleep
Admittedly, the wind will top a cat any day of the week
We can’t call a cat what it is and the wind what it is not

How the weeks pour so quickly in long days
And too many hours, and multitudes of tasks at hand
And stretches of lost sleep, and humble weeping,
Warping of time, lost minutes in reading and writing,
Stifling boredom, away in catacombs…
And to note the swift passing of slow days
Is all the more intriguing.