by M.W. Miller
1. In Bus Depots Scribbling
Tear all the notebooks from the hands of these people in bus depots scribbling, the guardians
will say that nothing, nobody has been torn, over the chasm
hang the cedars, trembling, on the edge of falling
for lack of the weakest rooted filament or vine, in the opening
void the guardians will say that nothing, nobody is at risk, so tear all
the notebooks from the hands of these people in bus depots or dim stations, in hallways
or unlit rooms, the guardians
will say that nothing, nobody has gone dark, yet in the weak
tremors collapse the towers, the cracked adobe shatters, lacking
the least mortar, design or care, yet in the following roiling coils of smoke
the guardians will say that nothing, nobody has fallen, so tear all
the notebooks from the hands of these people
scribbling in parks, in rusted unwheeled junks set up on blocks on back
streets, on gravel shoulders at the edge of town, the guardians
will say that nothing nobody has been lost, yet particles unanchored
disperse and gather, yet fractured concerts rise to the edge of noise, yet fabrics knit to the ends
of unravelling, yet in the remaining
heaps of bits, of tones, of knots and threads the guardians
will say that nothing, nobody is undone, so tear
all the notebooks from the hands of these people in bus depots
scribbling, tear all the notebooks from their hands.
2. In the Crossing, North Avenue
Whatever the cause or agent that left him in this condition for the crossing
of North Avenue no longer matters, is beneath contempt, not owed
the dignity of a name, though it twists and continues to twist his spine
away from the path he would travel, rolling his head, his gait as he staggers
through the cloud of diesel fumes in the heat of August, though softened
by sunlight the asphalt
is adamant, doesn’t give way, even as traffic relents, allows a narrow
passage across, an unhoped for gap, the pain you feel
must be harder, greater than the crossing, greater than he is as he writhes
in body across, arms flailing, his legs at odds, like ships at sea
the buildings as he approaches rise up, sink, pavement swells up, falls
away without motion on its rough unyielding stony fulcrums, his joints
grind, in a burst of pulses at hips and knees the pain shatters, at back
and neck shatters, the pain you feel
is greater than he is, has its own being, carries him lurching in its rusted
metal arms across North Avenue, in the bareness of the crossing truly
you feel the pain must be greater than he is, yet study
as he does the witnessing blue dome of sky that swings in, out of view, unadorned, the blue
sky that rounds his head, slips away, yet study
the witnessing Avenue underneath that rises up, sinks while he crosses
in the clearing, against the light, yet study
the witnessing city that floats but is rooted, immovably, to the shores of North
Avenue while he crosses in the clearing, against
the light, yet study
that indifferent sparrow who glides with ease, such unserious ease while every twist
and flail of his crossing is weighted, irrevocable, feel again
that the pain must be greater than he is, review the anatomy of why that is, feel all
the sorrow you like, then let him go on, leave you unpitied, leave him
unpitied, leave him to say what is greatest on this day.
3. While He Has Grown More Old, the Girls
The girls have grown more lovely, he has grown more old, outside on the puddles
in the morning the ice is bright and cold, while flowing through the window the sun
is warm, falling on pain broken hands, the girls have grown more lovely
than they ever were, his heart aches, he has grown more old, their skin is more flawless, their dresses more crisp and rustling, their eyes
more unsettling as they look away, from North Avenue through the projects the wind
presses a rhythm, doors and windows open and close, routing and rerouting the air
like the valves of flutes, while his cane goes click-clack on the pulse
as he walks the courtyard, as he enters the street, the buildings
rise taller, the cathedrals reach higher, the painted glass is deeper, the bells ring more truly, they say, the girls
have grown more lovely, he has grown more old, the leaves have grown softer as he has grown
more rough, the fruits have grown more plump as he has grown more dry, bellies have grown
smooth and full as his arms have wrinkled and withered, the clouds
float higher, the waves surge higher, the rocks and hills more august, the weather more occult, the sky a more drenching blue
as his eyes fog over and pale, the girls have grown
more lovely, he can’t turn away, even as they turn away, even as light turns away, sound turns away, even as like distracted
starlets all of what he would sense turns away, the girls have grown
more lovely, he has grown more old, thunder has grown more deep, lightening more quick, birdsong more dense, the day
as in light opera unrolls, the costumes more resplendent, the voices more rich, the faces more unsearchable in the dusk.
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