Pouncing at the Mark / Ben Gulyas

Pouncing at the mark—

Sometimes we’re lucky just to say one word—

Wamby's Tavern, 1948, Toledo— just a bottle opener now, and by address, a hair salon—

Who can speak the turning of events in the wash of time?

We are sparrows on a closet window sill

in the bright human fatigue of something solar—

made of brain and heart muscle—

It shines, it doesn't shine, it expounds,

it doesn't expound…

even with a jar of gold, broken open against the voice, as it pounds exponentially in our hearts…

still, greed, arrogance, power, wipes up and walks away with just as much as you can dream…

So whoever has the baseball bat, the tomato, the branch of ash covered with that gold, just take it and swing—

How many swings in a week, a year, a life? Who knows?

We are a bees nest—

We are a constellation of bees,

beyond any nest—

A shanty ride of life with lights exploding…

sending solar flares out there into the world…

That's the mark,

like a shot—

just listen—

with a watchful eye…

there we are—

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