Diaspora
When the world goes pearly
in the helio range with ash and element,
and whatever was
understood in corpus
is suddenly forgotten —
like the reason why I walked
into this room —
when there is no one,
there will be a few,
perhaps, in a sleepy
orbit. And when they finally lose
communication, one will ask
nothing, over and over,
Do you read? — Do you read?
Except this will not be
the language he speaks in,
though the language will be the same
as it was before.
One will cry. Another, laugh
and slam his brow
against the indestructible
window until he is bleeding,
forehead split like the mango
he once shook from a tree,
until the sound that lives on
between the panes
becomes him, becomes the elegant
slander of his life he hears
or thinks
he hears, eavesdropping,
in this way, on the future.
If one of you can
point to this and say,
This is untrue,
then it is.
When and If are old friends
who write
but never visit, a withdrawal
of the senses
from a violent land.
I can’t remember
why I am
standing on this threshold,
every thing before me
a cloud
beginning to scatter,
while gravity
looks through me,
down my body
and into my shoes
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