A Graffiti of Great Antiquity

Paul Cunningham

“The gloom of cypresses,
is what i wish to prove”
– Eavan Boland

drifting is a matter of cloud-murk
when standing in the ruins
of the oldest city imaginable
a longtime search for easy crossing
from spring to winter
the yearly glow of former times
the very real cargo of weapons
drifting is how we
dance together 
in the all-too familiar fog
friends  strangers  family
who found themselves
screaming, stuck in trees
drifting  drifting  drifting
to traverse any scarred landscape
the fascism showered upon us
like we’re facing our own firing squad
in more than a moment of echo-chambers
and gruesome murders
to inherit an ancient heirloom
even if what’s inherited 
is spear-gored
grief-fortified sword
even if what’s inherited
is weapon
is always-already difficulty
of countryside and language
of the physical fatigue of borders
somewhere i am with you
in the degradation of suburbs
in fact, as i write this
i am six hours behind you
all of you, my left hand 
holding my right hand
like i’m holding a blade
i risked my life for
or maybe it’s something i inherited
will inherit    all in due time
this world is hard to survive
without family    without friends
when considering origins
one must consider everything ever written
no matter the source or target language
you must will yourself to translate everything
and so you will risk a new formlessness
one must adorn oneself with gold-like substances
of the earliest origins   everything repeatable
especially moments unrepeatable
every plague     every rare disease
every imagined dragon’s belch
carry it with you and treasure it
until we can sigh, laugh, and dream
in some laboratory of fantasy
until we inherit whatever sticks
to the bottom of the boiling pot
whatever swings with the rhythm
of the latest pendulum-chain

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