Would that I could explain this one to you. It just . . . happened. I'm a little afraid to talk about it, in fact -- my scalpels are too dull, my hands too shaky for dissection -- so I'll leave it alone for now.
If you've got any ideas, though -- I'm all ears.
reading in the dark
the moon held up by a thread,
or more than one, a marionette—
and the sky, fingers.
a text of stars, a lawful, certain blaze—
who doesn’t doubt everything, in this dark?
who can read? don’t read
without light, my mother says,
you’ll strain your
lovely glassless eyes.
hold the white gauze
of morning over your mouth—
it covers, nearly,
the tiny cuts left, invisible
as fiberglass on your lips, left
by what was
said over a bottle of wine, over
the raft of darkness
between you and another.
neither of you can agree
which one is the north star, the scoop
of light, and everyone points elsewhere, without
compass or chart.
who wouldn’t doubt what you heard
come out of his mouth?
each star playing its last white note.
flawless, his logic, his starred map:
the text of argument, full of tunnels,
escape routes, pinpoints of light
that don’t add up
to a moon.
(Not yet published. Please tell all your publishing friends.)