Monday, September 7, 2009

The Orthography of Dreams


Nervous pencil you’ll
Slip the words of change
On a tiny paper wrapped to a tiny parcel
Wrapped in the word you pronounce as flight.
A hand and rib marked
For parliament better awkward than designed
A house of keys that asks of us
A thousand and one things:
The scratches, the pauses, the patient rule.

Everything speaks in its own way
The human paper sure of its silence
Gives way to a long felt voice
A voice without a name but doing its
Level best to speak.
It speaks of the orthography of accounts
And cold paper
And door creaking like the
Machine of symmetry clattering unanswered
Tyranny of constant attention
The hatless kiss
The breathless, deathless missing of a train or plane.

Beneath the cemetery wall
A faithless friend

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