Friday, February 24, 2006


Whose Flow

Later on, just as sleep finds out
words, and words for words, and narrates
me out of consciousness with whatever words
my waking will be the not-remembering of
I’ll remember nothing but with my body, all tension
will loosen, leap earthward—oh world,
if these large words whose arc my eyes grow dark to
could remember to be silent
in their motion, gracious enough to be
articulate beyond one random spasm
through my leg, a flutter like kicking off the deep end—
what do I hope to save, dividing myself thus
and jumping back and forth—
a drowning man each time? What is the story
I tell both ways, what are these fluent words
I always interrupt [hear], never remember,
which divide me, inundate me,
am I anything other than two
different kinds of sleep?

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