Coming soon . . .
My love, allow yourself to stall, just a little,
then enter the collection
of black and white victims.
they await your reply.
Focus. I’m holding your hand.
on bridges and walls
stop at 11:02
like interrupted sundials.
That, at least, you can respond to.
You’ll never make sense of rubble.
The raw body proves difficult Braille.
Illness you can fathom,
with its slippers scuffing along a glassy hall.
But can you feel it?
A kimono pattern imparted to the wearer’s skin.
Beloved, you’ve been carefully trained
(do you sense your resistance?).
Meaning is lost
between the vulnerable eye
and well-defended mind.
Who’s on your side (you keep asking)?
Not righteousness, not at this late hour?
Look at you, unsure,
but sure underneath.
This poem is included in the collection, Plume,
(University of Washington Press, 2012.)