Brian Swann
 
 

 

          TO THE END
 

Earthís chill Iíd 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 Iíve 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 thatís 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.

Copyright © 2003 Brian Swann.  All Rights Reserved.

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