I am preoccupied with faith,
its dangers and its solace,
as this snow falls, a drift
of fist-sized flakes that sift
from a dim sky, then change
to sleetish rain. An hour,
I'm told, for the average flake
to fall. This stone is filled
with galaxies; this child is held
with love. This earth is
baptized, not by god, but by
neutrinos. In dreams I am
stalked by elephants and dragons.
I put my hand to the wild
boar's neck. I feel its pulse, its
coarse fur. Its eye on me.
So now I have relaxed some.
The bottle of rum is gone.
My friends have all gone home.
All that's left are particles in air.
Oh, and my wife. She's here too.
And all my pets and whatever
Is left in the fridge. And the TV.
The TV is on mute. The stereo pushes
abandoned words like falling leaves
Like specs of dust, longing for
Carpet, tile, wood, wine cellars,
like they offer some true reprieve.
So now I lay sturdily lodged in
spaces between my fridge and my TV.
Behind my couch, under my couch, between
the cracks in the cushions of my couch
like a treasure for some fair fortuned
navajo dog to never find. just dust
cemented in kitchen corners or laying
lightly upon The best bottle of wine
that was ever forgotten through
generations. Unknown to mankind, like the
orbit of earth.
a slight breeze.
we are the hollow men
deconstructions of gray. looking back
half in shadow, half in near light,
the large round moist eyes
weary from the chores of interrogation,
museum of missing suspects.
after the fact. reminiscenthere the light is softer, the eyes
of a mapplethorpe photo
of roy cohn late in life:
face and head sharp lit
in dark background, nearly
face worn and cratered, plagued
by the failure of years, eyes
opened wide with shock and haunting,
having seen too much,
learned too little.