A hatchet with which to chop at the frozen seas inside us

to wake to winter     in the coming out of the time of year

when they release

the masterpieces,

                                            but to be still in the other night.

                        some drown in movies.

some prefer the unfinished

ungovernable recital,

                                a mystical ecology

                 where one dies in a camp,

   or rolls out with the dice

                  on the sidewalk among boys with

cardboard shields

                                          and plays dead in white crinoline.


what if paradise was only lifting the veil to flirt.

                        no one perfect, but perfection inserts

us so, Pascal

                 thinks a God in his pocket.

what if paradise meant walking

                                    on the ground of our self estrangement,

and the veil of our gaze

                           an unsteady balm

was not what we saw through

                                but were,   twisting, untwisting—

do you believe.            we were never strictly servants.

 

Gillian Conoley, "A hatchet with which to chop at the frozen seas inside us" from Peace. Copyright © 2014 by Gillian Conoley.  Reprinted by permission of Omnidawn Publishing.
Source: Peace (Omnidawn Publishing, 2014)
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