Poem and the Man
Aluminium closure of the throat
The poets croak a metal
The man drags its feet to the next Apple store
The poem is flattened dough, rolled too thin to be picked
In the process of union- they split like butter and sand
For the breaking voice is a sign of an honest try – the falsetto is a steel waterfall slicing the river with gravity
The river combines like water always does, the dough meets itself in the hand
How loud is the poet emerging from the words- scattered on concrete platform where travellers walk through one another’s moving bodies
How high is the voice of this poem that a poet falls between its ledges
The image of a bone (knee) scooped away from the sand body has stuck with me from the union of the poem and the poet
The aluminium plates of his body powdered in the catastrophe of the union. Thankfully metal glitters in light and we can marvel at it in any state
In that form of faint impressions lost in sand. Alas, we bring it and beat it together to erect a form
Use it to put things in – could be keys, could be soup. Things of meaning beyond beauty
Language, the only aid, stands in the way of the union. The falsetto falls on the river- breaking water like it were glass.
I rise in another Apple store and rush out. Wires sticking out of my body only I know of. To the world all of me is wireless. The sharp metal reflecting a logo I hold in my hands all the time. My own.
Man-metal-language drawn to the falsetto that breaks. The illusion of us – forming the story of this world is spoken in poetry- as through it were the truth
Over. Voice rests. Poetry back in the river. A waterfall halted in space. Gravity slumbers. We slide down those ledges of the poem. Man stands at the end of this – brushing his teeth. He is not alone, in fact his absence won’t disturb the union at all.