Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Following the Smoke of A Train

To put these pictures together. But:
The train is already moved to the next station
What remains is a blurry image of your hand
This smoke in the air till you return
With your face gazing out the window
Searching for me.
Time and time again I have been left behind
Today it is time for the birds to prey on my carcass.

Sometimes these English words, this alphabet
Seems lacking in dots. Letters that are so perfectly tied
To these linear, these circular lines.
And then a dot!
A separate existence. So imperfectly left out,
This hanging remnant of a shadow that is long departed.
Somebody hung their coat on this dot,
This small ‘i’, with a coat, this man running in the rain,
Afraid of his own shadow, afraid of that hanging coat.

No one wants to see what is left of the last herd,
The herd that died waiting for a shepherd to show up
From amid the bushes.

The English wholeness. My homeland never a whole.
My alphabet, our ancient wisdom, a set of dots and lines,
Lost in space. Each following the remnants of a missing face.

 

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