Anny Ballardini

Truck, November Issue

2014

This November,

With a well in my self

Draining water to saints

Kierkegaard’s paradox

From Socrates’s endless testing

Rules

While looking into the black pond

For answers

__God answers

Inwardly

This November,

Appalling month

Over 100 answered

Joining mine to theirs – yours / ours

Under Saint Cecilia’s patronage

Musicians blew their horns

Organs woke many

While the girl grew ecstatic

In thinking she could

Be

This November,

Thick in air stuffed with light

In closed rooms

At night

Trying to think

When thought gets lost

In and out of self

To accommodate

Past / future events

On a ten fragmented score

This November,

Has seen mountain peaks

Kneel

Sturdy Siqueiros’s hands

Leak tears and grow roses

On Time’s façade

Ancestors chant

Interpretative Chinese lantern plants

Decorate Proust’s monumental

Writings

This November,

Talks

Of seeds and piano keys

Of herbs

Of

Of vincristine

Of

Of crashed & renewed hopes

Of the makers of Illusions

Of a Leap of Faith

This November,

Smiles down at us

With its temperate sun

Its derailed tracks

Its alarm clocked underground routine

Messages on trains and greyhound busses

Slit throats bathed in the forgiveness of popes

Sacraments soaked in the concept of

Anxiety

Brevity

This November,

Without choice

The eleventh

Set as an Acheronian stud in a cameo

The rows of windows

People dis/appear in dim streets

They dis/appear in my mail

Their white poems against the black of Truck

With my acknowledgment to my

Moving November Poets

This November,

In the life of all

Distanced in our flesh

Distracted in our oaths

Hyper-attentive

Booted steps in echoing bells

Coats / cloaks

“Anything but loss”

Pleading for the word God gives to the Just

From those milky sky-s.

This November, 

Cold at the end

In the bones

With Thanksgiving on Fb

Teas honey chestnuts

Coughing

Giving thanks:

The girl is still alive

Distant

But still alive.

© Anny Ballardini

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