Oleg

Putting together puzzle pieces in the dark,
clicking together with melodious chimes,
oboes and bassoons;
they were like nails between my fingers
from the hands of forgotten christs
whose names had ceased ringing in the
corridors of pristine chapels and
silent ever still through monastery
halls and avowed monks left
to a seldom onus to 
remember Them  

It was only ever Them
who we beat out on dish pans with
soapy, wide brushes; like grease
in the evening under a solitary light
as the v-form geese squawk 
across the sky and disapear into Tijuana again    


Oleg! Oleg!
The new odessy I beat out against my wall
with butcher's meat,
that was for you
you were every line of blood which
seeped between my fingers and in the
cracks of my burgundy leather sofa
where it mingled with the color stained
and left forgotten wasn't scrubed away  

And what soaked in the cracks of my fingers:
that I cherished, like holding your beating
heart. my heart. The precious life I'd put
back into you again and hear that whistled
swainsong as you stood on the pier with a 
leg up and both eyes and pipe toward the
misty and forsaken red tide horizon  

thinking about the pier whose supports were
too high to anchor for passing, portless
ships forced to sail past him  
along the endless coast  


For Oleg,
That sea led to the great, vast space
where there is no shore
and out of its briny depths would rise
the Blackened Stone what
spoke out of the great cracking, crackling ice
to old Swiss robed friars in the mountain top  

and Oleg was there among Them

  By Jonathan Sanders - 6/21/2016 &nbsp https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4ozxxe/a_poem_i_wrote_anxiety/ https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4p1sc0/the_best_poem_ive_ever_written/