B.P. Temple

Can you see this rust? This rust,

Like pigeon shit on an alabaster bust

Bonded, as dentures do with that goo

That pink goo my grandpa used as grandpas do

What then of this rust?

Is it brown or red

Is it fine or crusty instead

Does it come with the dew

Or does it come from the sea

Or does it form more slowly, still

I can’t find the source, but it’s here

I can’t know its course, but it’s weird

To know and feel

This rust

It’s slowing down my wheels

Its dust, in my eyes

Its crust, on my heels

I have to shake it off

I have to see the steel

Bring back that shine, that metallic glow

That silvery ebb and flow

Is it iron? Is it tin?

No, it’s something far within

You cannot see it, but you can feel

You cannot touch it, but you can wield

You cannot buy it, for it is free

It’s within you; It’s within me

It eludes us from time to time

Or seems to have died

While still on the vine

Or dried and crusted

Like an old wagon, rusted

But it never truly leaves

You see?

It’s that glimmer, a burning ember

If you will

A brewing storm

Is it real?

If I tried to tell you, I couldn’t

If you asked me to explain it

I wouldn’t, until

A pen I’m given

Then on a page it’s written

And through the rust

Once again shines the steel

August 29, 2010 3:33 pm

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