The Thing Itself
In any case, the idea of sleep,
for long moments solid and specific,
blocked off the thing itself.
In the situation of the red poppies being there,
and me desiring them,
as if there was some depth I was looking for—
sacramental
as one knows it in the more selfless actions—
the meaning of gift.
Or following one’s gift (time like a lake breeze)
one morning in the sun.
I like the road because I sometimes see a peacock there.
Even though the river’s dry,
even though she said I have no tactics,
I have no parents, I have no armor,
in my dream
we marched away from a source of light
with masks on our feet.
When I heard the method of her attack,
I recalled
the octopus takes its prey below water and separates her
as one might part a head of hair into discrete sections.
I think, she went through this and can talk about it.
Something small and heavy falls out of that sleep.
She is not as devastated as I would be.
Except that when I feel for her I am her in a way.
Someone held me.
Close by a couple of weeks poured down like rain.
No one knows.
Are we the dancers?
Where the faces of the masks are in the mud,
we have tied
the strings into bows at our ankles.
