Capable Illusions


The invention of language means
you and I separated at birth.
That our bodies have form means
we know. We feel. We fall. We
get up every morning confident
you and I make a mess of things.
We love, we lie. We leap into
any wild manner of things beside
ourselves, the rearrangement of
distance like furniture that doesn’t fit
the shape of the room.
We clear clumsy courses to doors
that open but let nothing pass through.
Perspective is where we stand.
At any moment I have
no words. You, your
ear pressed against the threshold,
you hear the hum of the universe.
I drink gin, listen to the gentle
hum of the radiator. Myself, so terribly content.


The invention of code means
you and I have reached an understanding.
That its variations do not count means
everything. Your voice takes shape.
I tilt my head, listen hard, and pretend
to hear every word, confident
that speeches are illusions we build
with a careful eye toward the door,
that energy is incapable of lying.
I am undone by logic. I am put back
by force. I am held together by the inertia
of things we know
to be true when the world and the door
fall from their hinges and drop to the floor.
At your feet I am saved, blind,
ear pressed against the gentle
hum of blood and bone.

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