Monday, June 28, 2010

It's a Sickness

I see you looking at me with your odd-shaped eye.
I hear your black voice fall on the back stairs,
faint but particular,
weak but distinct.
The clatter of falling bricks
rises from the pavement--
I'm anxious, I've dropped everything I carry.

Your face doesn't change in the sudden chaos.
Your eye, still odd-shaped,
is deeply blank, a stone.
My skin trembles;
I know what it is to shake,
like a snake in a field,
shadowed by hawks.

I am like the man from Morel,
unseen, in love with the presence
of you. Invisible to your odd-shaped
eye. Invisible or feeling your
indifference. Suspended
in the iris of your still,
stark eye.