Permit again a window. A house, a mouth, a room
to be human in. Let there be a vitrine
holding a beeswax hand that is your own. It is sleep
I mostly recollect, the warm reprise
of flesh, insistence
and dispersal, its gathering
you in. But no. I have beaten
the body back
(could there be an intercession)
have turned it from its hungers, have rinsed it
from the scene. So her face
as she turns from the window, half illumined,
half dark. And the scar she traces, slowly
(could there be an impression)
on his cheek. Outside, the sky assembles
into its fractured grid. Rainwater pools in their courtyard.
(could there be a lens)
From the train, a passing landscape
(could there be an edifice, a bridge)
(could there be a figure)
whited out with rain. That there was, for so long
no station. No language
before which I could speak. Let there be
a narrow margin, emergent
on the sand. These pitted
tufts of grass. A river, blurred in the distance
(their sheets worn out, translucent
from long use)
and the man I'll never see again
exiting the train. As the moments close around him.
As, in the empty railyard, the birds rehearse their flight.
Let us be, for a time
forgiven. Let us hold
what we must hold. So that the earth might right itself
through the dark of sleep, through all our sex and texts.
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