In the film version
It begins with a shot of him shrouded in darkness. A thin sliver of light creeps in Dust, dancing like leaves in the season of separation breaks into a song alive only
in its singing When lovers pine in absence the wind pricks up its ears
In the field…
…there is another. Quieter than me, and more certain . He is not a god. He moves in the shadows. Afraid of the light, he lets it out slowly, like blood. He puts the people into place, anointing them with breath.
I am the absence
I am what comes after the cut. In a city teeming with industry a dream sits at every doorstep. Every step is a small death. I come at the break I lisp into silence under the fingernails of time. I always wait outside. I live in the rupture. I am what moves
the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
In whatever skin this body learns the meaning of space, this breath rippling with night, births stars. These twisted sinews, like clipped electric wires know death
as a friend. My mind knows the world, My heart wishes it did. Both are strangers
Both connoisseurs confirmed in their oblivion.
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part
my hair just to be sure that I am not mistaken for a scribe. We’re everywhere Driven as if by some stealthy enterprise. We march to the tune of our own impossibility. When I walk into a room the noise continues as it must. I slip into the air and become laughter. This is the only way one can truly get lost in a crowd. Nobody notices the pungent smell in
the air
I walk outside. I wait for a lift.
Then shaking my head to myself, I hasten home.
My nose wrinkles at that familiar reek
Childhood
A breath leaves my body, like a little tribute
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.
The evening has leapt out onto the stage. The guests have been painted in swathes of animated surprise, alternating with guilt. I watch him place each pawn with loving care. No black squares, only white. This is a little more than superstition. But it makes all the difference.
I smile, and step quietly into a black square, without him looking.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I know he will find out eventually. I know that the time will catch up with my pen. I know the song will taper into a river that has made its peace with thirst. Still, I move into obscurity only to become conspicuous in my absence. I move into the clearing.
I kick the dust from the surface of the page. I lisp
through the screen.
I move
to keep things whole.
P.S. This poem was first shared on December 8th, 2019 (with a different commentary) in the original Poetly site. That site no longer exists. I will draw occasionally on the few poems that were there, but are not in this archive.
I hope you are doing well, and this winter is kind to you. If you like what you read, do consider ‘buying me a coffee’.
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