Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Language Is a Lover Who Abandons Every Lover

White birds move through the mountains.
Before dawn, when the sky shines,
The mountains are in the dark
And the birds surprise the dreams
Of someone who doesn't know
He is awake already.
What are those fluttering wings?

Coming down to the water
As hesitantly as moths,
They don't seem like birds at all.
His overgrown mind wants them
To be ghosts or confusion,
Delicate, twitching eyelids
Rising and falling in thoughts.

Surpassing the silhouettes
Of the peaks, they are shadows
Themselves, black cutouts in air
And confident as ravens.
He's certain now they're real birds,
His perspective only tricked
By the Escheresque setting

Into seeing pallid wings
Against the darkness, black wings
Against the light. He struggles
Up out of dispersing sleep
Through memory's underbrush,
Stumbling in search of the name
That would make sense of these things.

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