D. Harris

...

And then at last I set about to work at it. My hands scoring its rough surface and delving into the heart of the thing to find what I sought; to create what I would; to build a thing of wonder and beauty. I slept not for days on end and when finally my work was finished I looked upon it and wondered how I had done it. Looking into the heart of light, the silence (these words I stole from a man greater than myself as I gazed upon my labor of love and whispered them softly; so softly for I must be dreadfully careful not to disturb the rest of that thing which I had created; not to mar its beauty) .
How long I stared at my creation I know not for I only stared until my eyes ceased to see and, as phantom memories floated up through the cracks in the floor and that thing which I had made began to fade into the pale darkness of the room in which I had made it, I wept, though I knew that this would only bring about the end more quickly.
I wept for the loss of that thing which I had created and as I wept I thought on all that it had once been made from: marble pillars, crystal glasses, blazing fires, drowsing waters, yellowing pages from books written long ago and crumbling words from tales told long ago. All these things and more I remembered as I looked at the wreckage of what I had once made, that which no man yet had made; nor would any man see it or believe in its truth for even as I had first thought of fetching a man - perhaps Monsiegneur Khayyam or my dear friend Cacciato or or even a casual acquaintance, someone Innocent or Pious - even as I first thought of fetching one of them, that thing that I had made began to fade quietly into the room in which I had made it, and, soon, soon nothing was left of it but a memory and a shadow of a guess at what it had been that lay across the floors and walls of the temple I had built it in.
At last I had set about to work at it. I had made a thing of beauty, a thing which no man has yet made, and as the failing light of the dawn came through the stained, glass windows, I thought one final time of what I had done and then laid it to rest.
...

My memory’s foggy.
It’s hiding,
curling up behind a cigarette haze
of forgetfulness
...

It’s been said
that any man
with a microphone
can tell you
...

helpless in the attic
when I found you
covered in the dust of your age
and the bile of your youth
...

Where will the white leaves fall?
wasted upon the grey earth,
where, so many years ago,
we knelt in prayer:
...

This is where we buried It
with bones, prickly like ash,
and a toothsome grin,
not that of the cavalier
...

...

sirens wail their songs
to the moon at midnight
on new year's eve
and we sleep alone,
...

And now, at years end
I turn my wind-
scarred face
towards that doorway,
...

...

grasses will grow and seasons will change
and we my dear wont remain the same
and so it may pass that over the years
i forget the name of the voice that i hear
...

cigarette smoke and the smell of gin
and you know that you're glad to be back again
and you wonder to yourself where have I been
...

what is it that you hear
when you see the sun rising
high and high and high
in the east
...

i once saw your face
though i know it has changed
and in the years since
we have been estranged
...

i collapse in bed under an assumed name
knowing things that i know i never knew 'til today
and i look all around at the place that i lay
and i pray for the memory of the men that ive shamed
...

I
How long has it been
since the last time?
the spring rain doused us
...

when the winter sun blows across my door,
i know that death is come.
With his veteran's limp
and his one good eye
...

you should show your faces less often
so the memory of your Beauty will fade
because, as dust fills your mind
and your wrinkles deepen,
...