From “Unexhausted Time”

This story is a leaf that bursts out of

a branch, unfurls itself, lives for a summer,

and then dies. And it’s your face striking

me like the time of an appointment I’ve

missed when I notice it after all this time.

I fear a catastrophe that has already occurred.

The communication always went wrong.

Like we were under a bad star. Bad?

The star was festering. Coldness around

all of my love. There was a woman

who stopped me in the street to shout

in my face about the violence she’d seen

in me. Brake lights in the early mist

like so many accusing eyes. You did this.

For a long time a man was dying,

making himself die, he couldn’t stop,

and we forgot, we did our best to forget him.

How can a person walk in a shroud

all the miles of their life. But how

can they shrug it off. We were searching

I decided to try and write to you

about what I’m experiencing, since

I have no techniques for helping myself.

Why don’t I have any techniques?

If  you were on the other side you

might see the outline of my face

pressed against the veil, the look of

desperation. The deepest rooted dream

of a tree is to walk, even just a little way.

A phobia is a ritual of not-doing. It did not

feel like a ritual but an injunction

from a distant government, one we

forgot we’d voted for. It was a nice house,

quite plain and tasteful, but it had a bad

atmosphere. I don’t like the way things

have turned out, but the law is the law.

It’s interesting how the poet keeps saying

A gate that leads to nowhere,

a tree cut short at the limbs,

nobody inside my dream ...