An Explanation of Listening
I'm waiting it out. There's no choice in this.
If I made it into a chalice would you drink
From it gladly? If I am, in fact, the imaginary
Person you are waiting to appear at the head of the
Door complete with endless forgettable phrases
Twice as absent in their disguised presences
Would I be just as rosy then, widening gradually into a dawn?
Or is it simply an addition of commas which creates
All the work, a solid, impenetrable translation
Of unmade references so tangential so continuously unmade
Out of the touch of your arms breathing inside themselves
It's their breath dissolving into an aid, a helpmate.
Understand me, dear Mr. Rachmaninoff encourager?
I sure have learned how to hide absently bending forward.
How would you call that wrinked or periwinkled?
How dare you label it as words or call it horizontal
When it is transforming unmistakeable signals into singles
All neat, night clearly headed out for? We just wanted
To get a hieroglyph started with rain unmade into being possible
Only absently as a blurted shock of moisture
That isn't only not added properly, but vigorous
In its unadorned suddenness. A sneaky kind of sadness
Puts a poem to sleep. Anything bad has a bit of error
To disprove in clarity. The news before you made it up in your mind.
For example, now would be the time to refer to a rusty ventilator
Or venite, venite, venite adoremus. Welcome back, dear Mr.Beethoven,
Mr Bach, Mr Brahms, Van Gogh, Van Eyck, Van Johnson.