Rescue

Rescue


Pushing towards
the end of another year in which I probably
didn’t die. In which I raise the paw of a baby,
such a little hand and wave at the growling
furtive blasting sage black face
of barreling time. I place my bag
on the ground of the platform. I check my
watch. It’s mine. I’m not
Jacob Boehme. No. There are moments
that only connect to other ones.
This is the nature of time in which
we are brave. I don’t have
a little life. Yet I speak to you
through it. Look at the hand
I wave. My hand is strong and tan
with the branches of my blood
with the tiny spots and golden
hairs, with the protective
tips hidden by glass
tapping along. I hear you.
The seering sounds of the world
occur. It seems a system upholds
the presence of the not me
and its nothing alone.
In the rooms of the culture
across millions of wires and
gaps the invisible forms
that travel fast the meaningless
blasts of light are heading
right through my chest
and me? a bird seems to cheep
yes right through you too.
Inaccessible, ineradicable
the embarassment of being part of it
glimmering a workmen lifts his
chinging hammer
one piercing the other & the
next and the next
a joke for a god to be breathing through
the world the day a dish


©1996
Eileen Myles
Posted over on $lavery1