Hero’s Wound

head arms legs thighs groin shoulders elbows lips heart

We wear our bodies grotesque. 

If I could—

If I — could detach –

could detach self –

If I could detach self

from the earth, night, page,

cross, then I’d be as if elsewhere:

between darts, pulses, waves,

like starlight

never reaching the same place twice,

falling unhinged

into a world where 

the wind suspends the breath,

and the air could displace a leaf, 

a word, a sigh –

 

but here —

in this city we create in bar talk,

you speak in metaphor,

and argue that there is no beauty.

Whatever, man.

Driving on 128 North to Gloucester,

I saw Saint Theresa:

light

the color of 

Byzantine mosaics,

decomposing gold,

and joy 

nothing other than the feeling of reality.