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lay your hands on the brakes, these eyes, gentle imperatives all the way ’round, do this/
do that, and be sure to order another round for the boys, due
now, is what the hypnagogic master said—there is nothing
wrapped in a mantle of something,
at its core, there is less
than we hoped for, all these constructions covering
it, the multifaced long haul from birth to unwanted
birth—pick the cherries from your pupils. or so
they said
mother, you are dead and buried; it’s been five of
those years since I was on your hill, taking
snapshots of the gravestone, then
sending them to the sister to whom, it
appears, I am already [reader, fill in the rest; lay your brakes
on these hands]
trim the hair from the rockface of the all-giant;
something is growing despite God; they
probably hate that—the all-God, that is; it’s
like explaining baseball to the smartiest, smart
ant in the whole anthill, as amusing and pointless:
we wander tightly, tethered to the things told
to us as childs
listening for it, the sound of stones, in the blank hours of the unexhausted
dawns; it is right
there
listen for it, floating sideways in the dim glop: the non-pulsing
breath at the lungless centrality of all objects; it is confirming all
that dares be
listen to it,
and we’ll hear it separately and separated, amidst the siren-y screams,
undisturbed and transparent, the glowing that is backwardly
inward, showing the way, casting a light so unassuming it does not
brighten, lest it stain the surfaces, the depths, the walls you walk
between on the labyrinth’s long and disjointed journey
of return
Twitter: @suddenlyquiet
