Thursday, December 8, 2016

Genius In A Trunk


A genius in a trunk with horrifying effort 
sought in days on days, season
on seasons and year on years,
to at last construct a doorway,
a window of senseless motion,
fallen shrugs and sighs and dateless
walks across a universe city,
to pass through those brittle walls.

Genius, filling, stacking,
stacking, filling, packed
dozens of unseen faces,
stacking sense on word,
scribble on type on scrawl
from inner names seen
in a clouded mirror,
from a now empty chair,
awaiting a futureling,
a reader,
any reader,
this reader,
to say yes, yes, yes, you
are the genius in a box,
your trunk of dreams
just for me.
I am that futureling
to discover you because
I see your genius.

We will sit together in the trunk
and pierce paper with inked images,
or, from passing minds, we genius
sculptors will furiously chisel word
and sound with nerve and finger,
and pen and finger, and key and finger,
and whisper of our blood
and coffee and wine
and love.

Our futurelings, seeing all the stars and moons
on our track of discovery, and light
tracing roofs and walls with a line of silver
from our port of departure,
glimpse yellow lamplight flowing
from a solitary window,
above a lonely street where,
at last, their own silhouettes
hunch over a table to scribble ink
across reams and reams, keys pounding
faster and faster
to find an end
to our heart.



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