After Goya’s Giant

He stoops to madness:
Minds hunching within minds
Under moons of scratching doubt
Carved out on restless days
Like the artist whose muscled form
Surely leaned over to
Peer out over his subject
In the solitude of dreams
Night on night
On night.

Oh but his eyes turn and gaze,
Eyes eyes eyes
Obscured within the sneering shade
To wade through horizontal night
Smeared black and white across the
Soul-etched map as minds are
Slivered, charcoal-grazed
By sudden shock of sanity.

Lost in his turning, or we
In this eternal night of
Questioning grey,
The descending lamp of thoughts
Awakens the hushed abyss,
Seething with a knowing hiss.

How I wish the sun moved

Even knowing that we
Are the bodies in motion

I want to believe that this
Is the sun reversing course,

So certain in how it seals our days,
Unlike inconstant shadows

Haunted by their dreams of dreaming,
Burst by a minute’s leaving.

Patient, they hold their scribble shapes
Acting out secret pantomimes

Between rays, hoping to outpace
The endless sweep of tugging days

Until gravity’s yearning hand
Keeps these restless secrets turning.

(October 13 2015)