When the world goes pearly

in the helio range with ash and element,
and whatever was

understood in corpus
is suddenly forgotten —

like the reason why I walked

into this room —

when there is no one,
there will be a few,

perhaps, in a sleepy

orbit. And when they finally lose
communication, one will ask

nothing, over and over,

Do you read? — Do you read?

Except this will not be

the language he speaks in,
though the language will be the same
as it was before.

One will cry. Another, laugh

and slam his brow
against the indestructible

window until he is bleeding,

forehead split like the mango

he once shook from a tree,

until the sound that lives on

between the panes

becomes him, becomes the elegant
slander of his life he hears

or thinks

he hears, eavesdropping,
in this way, on the future.

If one of you can
point to this and say,

This is untrue,

then it is.

When and If are old friends
who write

but never visit, a withdrawal
of the senses

from a violent land.

I can’t remember
why I am

standing on this threshold,

every thing before me

a cloud

beginning to scatter,
while gravity

looks through me,

down my body
and into my shoes

Printed from Cerise Press: http://www.cerisepress.com

Permalink URL: http://www.cerisepress.com/05/13/diaspora