Farther and Farther from Zero

Winged Figure, Abbott Handerson Thayer

Suddenly, I fall from the pavillion

into a place where I see the ugliness,

hypocrisy, rouge on a sunken face,

a thorn lodged in a kidney, the blind crone

holding a laurel wreath for the winner,

her black ribbons in shreds,

her eyes dark with purple,

a gold anklet on her shriveled leg.

The puppet show looks charming,

but go behind the screen and see who runs it.

Wash your hands and face of this charade.

Anyone who wants these prizes

flares up quickly like a wood chip.

There is one who can help,

who turns the wheel from nonexistence

to a sweet-breathing emptiness.

Words are ways we add up the breath,

counting stress and syllable

with our exacting musical knack

that takes us farther and farther from zero.