Mark Sauer Poems
|43.||Worshipping The Void||4/21/2012|
|45.||The 'Tween Girl||11/1/2012|
|46.||Marble Shall Not Weep||11/1/2012|
|51.||The Sound Of Mountains||8/24/2017|
|54.||Lee Circle, New Orleans||8/24/2017|
|56.||The Prometheus Tree||4/21/2012|
|57.||Remembering The Womb||9/28/2012|
|59.||Envying The Lichen||4/21/2012|
|60.||The True Judgement Of Paris||4/21/2012|
|61.||Last Night's Apocalypse||4/21/2012|
|67.||The Library At The End Of The World||12/29/2012|
|68.||The Fang Has Formed The Fawn||12/29/2012|
The Fang Has Formed The Fawn
The fang has formed the fawn, and red makes green
On meadow grass where blood distills to sap.
The world blooms from carrion soil, made clean
By vultures turned to blossoms. Maggots trap
Entropy, filth makes gems that then ascend
To feed the mockingbird. Eden labors
Ever to be reborn, and yearns to mend
The fall. The leopard's ivory sabers
Sculpt the antelope to a perfect grace.
The mortal screams of all the teeming prey
Are birth pangs that briefly across the face
Of a dreaming fetus flitter and play.
This world is a clenched womb, as yet unborn,
The Sound Of Mountains
Don't harken, but hear the sound of mountains.
Heed not, only float on the uncrushed cloud.
Reflect like a pool, don't peer through a lens;
Be still, be still, and know that I am God.
Resting on the seventh day, only thus
Could I know My works. Rest with Me, to know
Them too. Take ease from even idleness.
Drift in the current not marking the flow;
Tremble to the echo of creation,