A gentleman with no expression
mistakes my identity. He thinks the microfilm
of my heart is a cryptogram, a scheme to disrupt
the goals of all armies, everywhere.
He steps into my bedroom, night after night,
and photographs the dreams I project on the wall.
His prints show many children, in gardens,
games of all kinds, women without a stitch,
in the primary colors. What you'd expect.
He chases me to the Arctic.
I teach the wolf's cubs
to hunt, to gather
in packs soundlessly.
I tell them stories
of what they will be.
Finally, on the border between two lands,
we close in at the edge of a waterfall
He advances with a scalpel. Hanging
by both hands, I hold him off, the wolves watching,
until he bends down with his chloroform,
and, senseless, I feel my self being pulled out,
raw and shiny like an oyster. I drop,
all the way down, down to the rocks, without falling.
You have been asked to come, and so
the elevator turns into a cell, opens
on a hall in flames whose center finds
its way to Christ, a two-tone portrait.
the card tables have guards who will
step away if spoken to. Soon the set
goes on, Lucy is love but sadly,
without her words. For once the ones
in white are ravishing, you can't
believe their step, each glance
a drop upon the forehead. To soothe
the torn matches, the scrambled hands
you speak in monotone, drawing in air
a plant. No use. You dig around for words
to leave, put down the cards with stains,
smell the flowers on the way. You turn.
The open hallway drops, forgetful of its end.