Repetition

The hour of hopelessness has come again
humming its dirge beneath the detailed scenes –
the cycling colors in the sky, the trees, the mind.
All these years and still I’ve found no absolute,
no home in place or trade or hand. A cry and flight
make ready in the oily throat and dark wings;
one shouldn’t give breath to such desire
to follow the beckoning finger out of the complexity,
like a crow out of the trees. No, not to bring
her eyes down from the unintelligible branches,
the clapping leaves that mean nothing like joy,
and the faces also not part of some secret certainty.
The senseless calamity of unread books upon the desk
has reminded me, perhaps I cannot bare to repeat
what has been human billion times before,
this thrashing about after proof or belief.