by Byron Matthews
The world sculpts our words, shapes them
to reveal itself.
Dostoevsky wrote of a dog stretching
to lick the vivisectionist’s hand:
Strapped to the cutting board; the glint of the knife
in those soft eyes.
If there are words to express the pathos of that scene,
I do not know them.
Consider a world where such words quickly come to mind,
and think if you would want to live there.
For the saddest things there should be no words,
only music, only tears.
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Byron Matthews left Iowa for graduate school in North Carolina, later gave up a tenured faculty position in Maryland to make furniture for ten years in Santa Fe. He lives now in the mountains east of Albuquerque with his wife, a cellist. |
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