Lost Places, Eroded Names

Is it the twelfth day?
On the final long long look
toward the hazel-colored western horizon—
after the short rest comes the long disillusion.

The toys under the tree have lost some shine.
The track for the electric train doesn’t quite connect.
Needles fall onto broken ornaments.

One glove of the pair that signified a step
toward unmittened manhood
has been lost in some closet
or somewhere in the snow—

some lost spot,
dire and sacred now,
dedicated to the discovery of dismay.

Our relationship with the elements
of the quantum universe
is the same as our relationship with the gods—

ephemeral almost to the fine
point of meaninglessness
from atom to axiom and back
to a graphite smear on the retina.

We have long stopped
extolling beauty to rule out discord.

Still, we struggle for beauty,
shadow of beauty, echo of beauty.

We search through discord,
explain, excuse the ramble
of discordant minds.

We write through discord,
but only into.

We listen for beauty—
we hear dys-chord.

Richard Fenton Sederstrom was raised and lives in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona and the North Woods of Minnesota. Sederstrom is the author of seven books of poetry, his newest book, Icarus Rising, Misadventures in Ascension, published by Jackpine Writers' Bloc, was released last winter. Read other articles by Richard Fenton.