Friday, September 5, 2008

Poem Interlude

(Written awhile ago, I was reminded of this poem (published in Blood Lotus in December 2007) by a recent message incorporating Wittgenstein and Depeche Mode in the same breath.)


They told me,
"Not one word
over what is,"
and all song
ceased. I could not
write my name.

They told me
it was simpler
and proffered unity
and promised relief.

I saw a boat.
I wrote boat.
I did not think
coat, stoat, smote,
sail, ocean, salt air,

I saw a boat.
I could not write
swan. But I dreamed of you
in ink, your skin's incongruous
benediction of skin and thing
at once:

sun, leaf, anchor,
rabbit, circle, knife.

I begged you to cut
away my eyes,
but it was forbidden
as dreams would be.

Every body was body. "The rain
is someone crying," someone said,
and they killed him.

In my last dream
you held your palms to the glass
and gave me two closed eyes,
then closed your fingers
over the last possible thing.

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