Earth’s chill I’d thought a gift
that
waved its hand in great
syllables sparing me
from speech. So then I was quiet.
Now I wipe
my glasses, think what I’ve
become
while I light the dusky window &
clear
the disordered table. I
take down a book,
write out some notes. You could
not
see me then. You can not
see me now.
I have become what I dreamed,
someone to look right
through, the
invisible man. As dark falls, the
lost & dead
rise like heartburn,
scalding the back
of my throat. What good are they?
They scatter with whistles
of despair
in rain that’s left light in
trees.
The last flush flares, dies
down
& I turn the remaining pages
as if I were a character
wanting to see
who makes it to the end.
