We stay on the trail, but behind
the events. We have nothing but echoes
of our own voices, when we sat in front
of the fireplace, where three men sank
to easy sleep in cinders. Sunbeams flitted
on the wine glasses, we stared at the surface
of things inside their form, hardly disfigured
by agreeing on their names. It’s enormous,
this world, huge with narcissistic thoughts
that evade a wayfarer’s way, poised to take
in each and every courtyard as his own,
but a master only once a century or so.
While the others are in front of the fire,
in a coma since yesterday, I’ve gotten up,
all covered in sweat, again dreaming nuns,
who usher an end to travel at the door before
the zone of no return, on one side of the river
bank, same side every time. I’d prefer to show you
where, between the chimney and the eaves,
the warbler’s nest, I’d fess up to small swindles,
I’m straining my ears like a ram’s horn, to catch
the chords the accordion bellows, elastic
and stretched by a crazy fellow, his sidekick sings along:
fear once put behind you is the start of being proud.
from Without AnesthesiaFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2011
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on behalf of Persea Books.