You could have it worse than this
bit of light on your shoulder,
this steady beat that keeps the time,

that organizes space, that solitary
field, upon which nothing
you can name runs cold.  Yet this

remains in the margin, the crack
that is intent or method only,
the shape a voice assumes

in memory, projects as phantasy,
not willed event, but chance
progression, peripheral design:

a few feint freckles on high
and elegant cheekbones, or the back
of a Boston rocker in afternoon

shadow.  You could demand more
definition and depth, an alto
saxophone’s sweet plea for release

from its longing, or for language
to break down in nonsense
where phonemes are born.

 

Hear it:

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