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They’re gone

They’re gone—
I’m not really asleep
I lie here, doze and think
They reappear
And if you like what I say or do
it may be them you admire, their
hilarity, clarity and purpose

There’s a feeling you get
when you hit a baseball just right
or when the melody flows
through your violin above
their stiff insistent rhythms
Their voices are like
the sisters of angels,

like implausible whispers
of everything you know
When I’m with my lover
and she turns me on
and the night becomes quiet
and causes become reasons
and I was there

but you couldn’t see me in that
vibrant distortion of light and noise,
as the fear of abandonment
and the fear of being consumed
become the same fear and my
job is dirty, dangerous and dull
and all that reach is

through the dead mass between us—
So if you say I’m quick, honest,
careful and true, it may be my father
you should credit, his brute intelligence
(3% Neanderthal) speaks through me,
and when you praise my wit
you may really be praising Gene

who taught me and in my empathy
you’ll see some soft echo
of my mother’s wonder and
irrepressible intelligence,
while some call it the subconscious
and others know it as that stark,
curious, tumultuous river of all origins

 

 

-February 25, 2017-