Hierophany

Born of the uncertain meteor
and unkempt Pleistocene,
still unanswered sirens
cry out from their
motorized crib in the distance,
closing in on Doppler, thinking
maybe he is their daddy.
How hard they have howled
to be heard equally in all directions;
How many knees of time
they have bounced on with tender bottom.
When they pull even with him,
and he has no reaction,
they speed away, hurt for a moment,
but still not swayed from
their evolving search for harmony:
a blood connection, the proper echo:
someone lying beside the road, who
also calls out, also listens: who
hears only one frequency in the turnkey dawn,
his and his and his,
the same as it ever was,
the same as it ever will be.

This entry posted by J Rand : 12:40