...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


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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