Sunday, June 27, 2010

33. Thirty-Three Questions?

What is the shape
of a thought? of a word
in flight? for you, I mean,
for you, and when did you

discover what you meant
by what you expected to seem
to become? Did you ever make
a bird that could fly? and was it

bright green but
in the shape of a pigeon
and eating fruit in Africa? What
are the reasons you have given yourself

for never attending to
that small problem that seems to grow
larger each day? Which was the letter
you had intended to send

before it was too late? and was it
near the beginning of the alphabet
and a vowel? What do you do
with darkness? have you allowed it

enough space in your house or
does it push the walls out into
the night? and what do you mean
by night when the darkness

is housed within the rooms
where you live? each connected
in a series so they operate as a single
space. Do you prefer paint over

paper or canvas over pen? and
does the sound of a pencil
force you to reach for a crayon?
or can you not hear the difference?

With what breath do you speak
the words you most want to say?
is it the breath of the morning when
you have just arisen? is it the breath

of the evening and suddenly weary?
and are you given to sadness
when you say those words? What
do you think you are risking

to lose when you look
at whatever it is that you see
simply before your eyes? and when
you do, do you ever question

what you see? ever wonder if
your eyes are better than
the world’s truth revealed?
Which are the features of irony

you most admire? is it the way
that it surprises you by showing
what you know isn’t so? is it
the way irony demonstrates its

superiority over others? is it how
unrumpled your clothes are afterwards?
When you awoke this morning, awash
with sunlight, did you think, even once,

of the night that would eventually
follow? did you live your day’s life
enjoying the sun or worrying
about the unavoidable loss of life?

and did you see this as a reckoning
almost as if of death? Do you imagine
any part of your life as existing
in the shape of a small hedgehog

you could hold feeling
the tiny spines of that beast
push gently into the palms of
your cupped hands? and what

part of your life would that be?
the part before your kitchen
turned red and your faucets spilled
milk down the drain? the part

when your bedroom collapsed
into a neighbor’s dream? or the part
after you discovered the images
your hands could suddenly make?

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