|
ClairE
|
It's the things that make you feel alive
that are far between
but not quite so far apart
as to necessitate as much as a yowl.
No overanalysis, rubbing your hand
over the surface like a balloon,
trying to make it squeak.
No attempt to take a running jump
and try to dive inside it like
a summer swimming pool--
it doesn't really maximize
the glow.
No need for subversion,
like picking up a gourd
in your two hands
and shaking for the sound
of what's hidden within,
phantom-hard.
If this is what it took to get here,
it's a sacrifice I'll gladly make.
Vision eyes, they look
completely through the hand
I'm holding. Post-Cassandra,
you needn't mourn.
No_one told me
the absence of desire
wasn't a release of joy,
but instead a stumbling, gluey thing,
eyes half_asleep,
a glass of water, a scratch.
You learn as you unlearn,
the wheel's motion.
Time does effect loss, after all,
so that sometimes it's water
rushing past your ears,
but then again, mostly air,
that covers up the sound.
|
040305
|
