Conjuring Identities from Sleep
And what was left of the solid rooms?
Of the closets and outbuildings and sheds,
the disappointing cellars that we went into–
that we collapsed–
was there anything left?
Maybe:
some wine, some dried bread.
It was like halving a crime–no–
It was like solving an acorn–
a procedure there was no order for.
I think–did a tree grow out of us?
It did.
But all elsewhere is dogma.
Into the empty cathedral,
under the airy dome, where there is no generosity.
We are made to sit. We are ordered to come;
we are forced, throats clasped. We are made.
Think on it, look up, all around you, hope, speak.
Meaning, no home for our feet.
(And we need a quiet place for our feet.)
Also for our tongues.
Our flippers.
So I am taking you to the animal places:
to terminals and dens, to training rooms,
to clusters and cockpits and security checkpoints,
to culverts, and alleys, and trenches,
and gurneys where they lay us down and we are attended
and still (if you want to go) to warm cottages,
to French kitchens with broad hearths
and blue and white ceramic backsplashes
and (I don’t know why I do that) a heavy table
that is so heavy that we know to call it a board.
And the inventory is prepared, the cargo is waiting.
Though it’s probably midnight, we could get nightmares,
we’re so hungry.