Saturday, January 29, 2011

"By day and by night he moved among distorted images of the outer world."

Full of the black bent lines of hundreds
of pages and the sounds that their twisting and their standing
straight make, I prayed

and they unlocked their vicious chaotic embraces,
rising like steam,
dissipating like steam.

And a sound came

wispy like the feather
or tail of some creature
glorious,

a single sound full of one
conversation’s crumb, like the invisible hook flung from a door closing
on two friends in a dim room:

Your voice, and like in a dream I knew it and its being
about me,
you and the slick toothy shadow
beside you, being about me, and I saw you
and the closing door and your voice
more true to my eyes than the sounds spelled
out in my hand, and I heard you say something
lovely and simple about me.