Althea (poem)

To give it a name–a thing, a move-
Ment, a legerdemain, while it walks down
Walnut Street, while it stares down the Postal
Service–is to tame and convince it
That it has purpose beyond “it”
In itself.

And you are knife.

We, the people of the (thick billed fox sparrow), clipped
stare toward the sun with our wax forming with
our thoughts of rose-red fingers climbing,
we who put the Lethe in Lethargy. Caught.
Before you see it, you see something else, and

back before, and back, in time, some pre-seen tale
all foreground and almost remembered but forgotten.

Never bloomed. Never lived. Never born.

All horizons from yesterday, somesuch dreams felled flickering crashed like when
That surfer breaks his sharpened board against shark skulls, tastes salty sand and perhaps
Godly wine, the sky a radiance like volcanic dawn and crippled clouds painted fake
onlookers prying serrations from his pulpy feet while he rolls and coats his flesh in stones

Glass. Perhaps armor.

To give it a name, this move-ment,
A letherdemain, while it drives away
To somewhere else, same horizon
Same sun still no closer to the sea
Or parting thoughts, it names me.
Something.

And you are knife. Sharpening.

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