Latentsong and lacunae
Latentsong
Early in the day
the wind chimes can still relax.
They’re out of breath.
Tepid memory
has not yet allied itself with our natural weakness,
and so, both of us are able to prepare:
wild creatures shifting at the edges
of the mind, familiar ones,
here, they are slowed
to a crawl.
At this we cannot tell
if they plan on stopping
or on playing dead,
buying time to plan a counter-attack
from within those brilliant,
naive, outer orbits
against what is obviously,
on our part, another savage attempt
at a truce
and therefore cannot be a failure.
This early in the day,
when the wind chimes are still,
only by their repose,
which falsely suggests
that they’re more comfortable blowing about,
can we tell that there is still,
yet to come,
more latentsong
which promises as much
as a portrait photo does,
keeping the surface in harmony with the bulk
but growing more tenacious
as its clarity
takes shape
against our best efforts,
like drops of oil taking their bulbous volumes with them
as they evaporate,
leaving behind concentric rings
which would like to appear in the morning light,
to us, and this much definitively,
as true and vital growth.
--
Lacunae
Save those bitter turns of phrase
for evening prayers,
when the god
of betrayal shows his weary face.
Does he remember?
You can’t be sure
the way his eyebrows sag
at your indictments,
without remorse, but also
without assuredness.
He is also the god
of accidents.
Of prime importance
within the annals of Reason,
he is the silverfish who eats
every aging page.
His nostrils are vast lacunae
and his cheeks,
stretched tight
with inchoate poetry,
burn red with embarrassment
only when you show him your wound.