Thursday, December 2, 2010

192. It is All about You

You might hear a noise
In the thought of a step
Or a beat in the crunch
Of a step of a finger of


Or you could sense the salve
Of a cramp of a pain
In the arch of the foot
Of a walk through a


You would taste the breath
Of a slithering snake
On the neck of a sister
Or the back of a


You should smell the size
Of a lingering thought
On the arch of a branch
With the curl of a


You must see the shape
Of a tumult of run
Of a symptom of dash
Of the company of


Fools, every one of them
And you know it. There is
In each of their eyes
A dull realization, that
Vague sense, that some
Thing, some object
Requiring their attention
(the particular amount,
unknown) is before them,
And unignorably so, thus
They must engage with
That tender onslaught
Of reality with a patient
Zeal, yet they are
Not quite prepared for
Effort enough to count
As response, so they
Recoil, slowly, at the pace
A shadow recoils from
The rays of the sun as
That sun rises up into
The eaves of noon, and
They look forward into
That unavoidable object
Of their attention, and
They suggest that some
One else must take over
The task of responding
To the recalcitrant
Entreaties of the earth
In their various and
Prosperous varieties.

Has your nose remembered
What to smell off your
Finger, which feels beneath
Its fingertips the contours
Of your ear, which hears
Your tongue rocking words
To sleep in your mouth,
Which speaks words so sharp
With flavor that it tastes
Itself and imagines the bland
Flavor of your own eyes
Rolling over your tongue,
Desperately trying to see
Whatever they cannot see:
The darkness of the night,
Of your mouth, of the swallow
That takes them in, of the long
And serpentine journey down
Your throat, as you watch
Yourself watching yourself
Fall asleep, once again, a little
Later than you really should?

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