52 SONGS

...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Sunday, October 17, 2010

In Media Res

The sword, if a sword,

gleamed beneath breath


of cold morning, exhaled

by the man whose neck


would soon be irrecoverably

gashed. Soon's not soon


enough to convey its

quickness. Movies wrecked


us, revealed us: Image

followed image faster


than words, and mind

understood.


Who is this man who is

about to die? Events


have led him here.

The meaty sound


of metal on flesh rings

from speaker to ear.


Crumbling figures vanish

with the cut of the scene,


the credits’ upward scroll,

the car walk, the quiet


in the drive home snapped

at the question you fear


asking but do: So.

What'd you think?


The answer rings in

the cabin, or doesn't—


the voice low or voluble,

depending, but, I speak


here only for me: one

puts forward a word,


helplessly, and one

can't help but not get


what's wanted in return,

when it itself is not


what's wanted.

What is wanted?


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