This
and These
Send
me back to save the boy from this and these:
The
way the winter cuts, the way a graveyard sings,
the
way the blackness separates the soul from body
to
hurl it into dreaming.
I
should warn him also of the moon,
and
of rooms with fire in the center,
of
circumstance and desperate measures,
of
searching for a meaning.
Name
the thing you're seeking, son.
You'll
never find it.
There
is only time and this and these:
the
sky, the sea, the empty beach,
a
phantom brown-skinned girl who stands before you
out
of reach,
a
girl as silent as the sand inside an hourglass,
a
road that laughs, a dozen photographs of she
named
for a star that warmed you once, then disappeared.
There
is only time, this wall, this mirror
that
reflects a face you'd never guess is yours in twenty
years.
Forget
what you know: Angels are capricious elves,
dancing
backwards, signaling among themselves.
They
kiss you, yes, but so will death,
so
will death to the sound of ringing bells.
Barefoot
angels in their skirts and plumes,
one
who lights the flame, one who holds the spoon,
one
who lays with you to guard your breath.
They
kiss you, yes, but so will death,
and
death is less than slumber:
there
are no dreams or hunger inside its womb.
Understand,
I might have been a common man
had
I warned the boy in time.
I
might be sitting in a cafe now,
at
a table with a glass of wine,
my
eyes untroubled by this and these:
the
crossing off of weeks and months,
a
child named for light that warmed me once,
a
star that gave me shelter,
another
love I cannot touch.
I
might have been a simple man,
uncomplicated
by ghosts and twisted sorrow.
So
send me back, let me warn the boy about tomorrow,
before
the angels get to him,
before
time and life reveal themselves,
before
death becomes a song of ringing bells.
I
would merely be a dream to him,
a
dream, a ghost, a prophet confessing sins.
Then
fading out as if I'd never been.
