Jesus would be the first
to admit
he was a metaphor
but most mornings
I request an empty plate.
And it's plenty.
As a child,
my father once rode upon an un-
sheared sheep, large in body,
slow as hot mountain drizzle.
He remembers the incident two days
after his own father (the sentence
clearly written on his face
for two narcotic-thick weeks) had his
fourth body's first and only
death. It was easy.
Know something about this song?
J. does. He told me yesterday
in the car, in the snow that if he has a God
it's music. Why then
does he never sing? I can't ask him.
When I get through, I will bring
my whole life with me. The only thing stopping
me is the gunk-glue (and the rain).
Sometimes it clears up for a bright second and
I see all of us hard at work
on the dawn. And we're not allowed
to tell.
Living is showing
off for an invisible stranger.
The infinity of sister cites. The secret stays
in one and then, after some time, the other
and so on and on
and sometimes, just briefly,
and only at night,
in the void that's between them.
You can't choose. Breakfasts are for families,
sharers of cells, bodies, cities giving back
one silent riddle, one empty
plate
one torch song, one constant circular
pseudocide.
The only mistake you can make
is to stay a day
too long.
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