Go back

You And Your Mouth

I'll pick you out of a line-up soon
if you're not missing a bellybutton
like Adam in Eden.

You're going to have to do it on your own
by reaching down inside. Thence, I utter
truisms which you, and you, and you

filter through a tortoise shell
you're borrowing for the evening.
Absorb me through fingertips later.

There, in the spot on the wall silvered over
by the frostiness of an impure glance,
there must be some semblance of sincerity
left in a faraway city, one languid eye that's been waiting,
the curtains drawn, ever since.

A man in robes, evidently etched in
mainly for the sloping contours of his robes,
steps forward
to guide the premature tremble of a spotted hand
through the ring-toss: the gaiety,
the forced euphoria of the seance,
the blithe mood of the small, conspiratorial gathering
in a one bedroom roc's nest where the air is thinner,
darkens. Even ice cubes turn audible.

Next, the unblinking letter "E," over and over,
upside-down, backwards, in all sizes.
I can see the rain clearly now through solid steel.
The voyage to accomplish
a new order of solitude

carries the blessings of the elders, our ancestors,
graven on long oars, in its wake,

where, once the center has been attained, as easily
as anything non-existent ever is,
similarities endlessly begin
unifying. Fathers were gladly strapped into high chairs again
and burped. But with great authenticity, your squint
compresses the world, too, not just elephant skin eyelids.
Accordion folds ripple through the ceiling.
You're not imagining it. God is.