Is it you, your voice I can hear?
I keep an ear out,
one hand, great fist
down the throat
and the other
up, waving to the sky.
I sit and watch the endless herds
shuffle past, keeping schtum,
to pick out your face
through the dust.
The hardest part
is not finding you,
it’s not letting you stay.
I see you
and I strike up
My mouth is shut
but my mind is alight.
the throb of a stone
thrown from a great height
over and over, like
weekdays. the face
of a wheel.
we lose our tread.
i’m gnawing through the cable,
ensuring the signal
i’m listening to the dissonance of opinion
with a handful of keys.
i’m waving the ocean closer
to my one foot of dry land
in the hope
i’ll be swallowed
by a world in which
i need not hold my breath.
my thighs, wires
quiver to the song
of his name
my bones, tomes,
under her gaze
- Q: Why poetry can be hard for most people?
- Dorothea Lasky: Because speaking to the dead is not something you want to do when you have other things to do in your day; Because life is no more important than eating or fucking or talking someone into fucking or talking someone into something or sleeping calmly and soundly. And all you can hope for are the people who put that calm in you or let you go into it with dignity. Because poetry reminds you that there is no dignity in living; You just muddle through and for what? No. Poetry is hard for most people because of sound.
"Don’t tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
We don’t have to kiss.
I’ll type the fingers of a petal-flesh pianist
along a swan’s neck
and watch it give away its question.
We don’t have to be in the same room.
I’ll exhume a thousand histories
of fresh gardens blooming
from the battlegrounds
of wars against the world’s walls
and there we’ll paint a private haven.
We don’t have to touch.
I’ll write time as fluidly as calligraphy
into the story of how I get from there
to here, and you will feel every moment.
We don’t have to see
to enter each other’s bodies.
Close your eyes and listen closely:
This is the sound of summers humming
through the window, the cotton clouds
of bedsheets under our skin,
the dewy air of spring trickling down
our foreheads and between our limbs,
the sex of angel’s breath we inhale,
the red lips of every fire, the water
of every tear gone by,
the end of the world and the beginning
of the world as we know it.
Volcanic - as shaken - remade
and settled as an island anew.