As in in love for the blind
A change of fortune
Construction by night,
distant tense
Those words you happen upon nevertheless
A wingèd police,
bare trees
Shivery
Your instance is your existence
Longshoreman on sepia bicycle
People talk upon us and change our names
What is childhood if not infancy,
or the sound of a telephone unanswered in a building inhabited by echoes
Let that be where the text ends
You walk unsteadily because your body is a jug of perfume
What unites these narratives divides your lip,
as in in love for the blind
People get lucky on those machines,
others vanish near the seashore and are only thought of again
In wonder at how bare bulbs are strung in the naked trees,
at how the drizzle tastes of peppermint
Did you write your name on the floor
Sepia bicyclists armed with bow and arrow
Police funeral
Learning numbers by touch and fear,
your unchangeable names and gossips on roller skates
Let that be where the text concludes
It’s warm under my ripped and tangled blankets
I can hear each sound with the acuity of the blindest of
us
hearing a painting call out to its figures to hurry and escape
It’s a painting of the seashore,
desolate and glimmerlost
... too late to disembark
The ship is on the waves under the scattering clouds under the shattering stars
There was a woman cut her hair by night and by day walked through a city laughing out loud
We will get used to meaninglessness;
the difficulty is that meaninglessness will never get used to us
No comments:
Post a Comment