The salaryman who thickens under his heel
a lit cigarette, and drops it up to his mouth
to draw the smoke from the air and filter it
into paper and torn leaves.  The lone gunman
watching his chance to fire, and erase his name
from history.  The ballplayer shedding stats
with each trip to the plate, who culls a homer
out of the lights like a lost memory:  the crowd
gathers the stadium’s trash
and drifts away, happy
before another game splendidly forgotten.

I speak and my voice
withdraws, and you turn aside,
having no further need to understand me.
Whatever I think I know, I know
will have forsaken me by the next time
we meet.  I age
as we all do, toward the womb
of a mother I have only touched in dreams.

Someday the last photograph will be released
to light, the last book unprinted; the pyramids
will yield someday the last secret
of their unbuilding.  The long trail
of giving back will reach its final step.  The last one of us
will see a world charged
with mist, and all things breathing,
waiting as if for a word to be unsaid.

posted by michael  9:56:12 AM  
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