The Second Nobel Truth
Not you,
it is I am absent.
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow
you, the unchanging presence…
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain’s heart
the sapphire I know is there?
Denise
Levertov
After the beating,
no change.
No change. Those days on a vent-
ilator, the
chuff like train
steam, like
friction on the rod
and wheel and
track, something
pushes it all—in
and out—in—
and out—the hollow
tube first in
the mouth
then in the
nose and then—because
there’s life
somewhere
responding, a hole in the throat. And the rising
after is
muscle enough, breath
enough…but days
and days of coma
sleep. And the fist of gravity, with wrists
secure, gloves
stiff as desire, throb
and bop on
stitches all around
your lips, engorged
eye…gravity
presses you
into the pillow.
It seems deeper
every day, the
hollow made
by your head.
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