My son is telling a story.
Through assonance
and consonance
he is telling me that he is
on his way to the Green.




At first he's blinded
somewhat
by confusing colors.
He tries to see things as objects,
as he used to see all things
in the old world.



And what he sees
is a kind of monster, or a human Christ
with raised hands
in the empty sky.
Another human, perhaps,
survived from
the great blast

But
this is only a vision,
because he continues to walk
totally alone.



Art is made
not from repetition
- boom, boom, boom -
but from variance
within repetition;
from change,
from modulation.



He knows by now
that each one of us
is alone in the echoing blast,
because death is a personal happening,
while life is
a personal hope,
and endurance.