The real question
Is what to say, really.
What to say-
To the questions and
Half-questions and sighing eyes
In the half-light.
The real question is
What to say.
Of the curling December fog
And smoke that lingers
In the nostrils,
Seeps in through cracks
In the wall
Or is it through these
Rusted holes in the roof?
Of leaves that wrinkle
The greenness of their secret-
Curling tongues of brown
That noisily lap up fire
From burning torques.
Dead soles through the hedge,
Coming and going in a
Carpet of death,
Watch and learn
The brevity of breath!
But really,
What is there to say?
Of the endless coming
And going:
Leaves falling in a pyre
Or the rains that came before
Or the falling leaves
Before that
And everything else before,
And between
Or even after
Really,
What is there to say?
...
What really is there to say...
In this heavy reek
Of decay and
Cashew nuts roasting
In some foreign place,
And stew laddled in
A dry tasteless pan.
Legs wrinkled like time
Waddling between
Rust-stained China and
The heavy fragrance of
Death
Hanging like a comma
In the air.
I see it coming in the
Half-glances and
Furtive gestures of
Shaky fingers-
The question...
But what is there to tell...
And say my tongue
Were lathered in the
Smooth unguent of words,
And talking dripped
From my lips like honey,
What would there still be
To say...
How- how to tell expectant palms,
Upraised in the half-light
In pleading,
How to tell supplicant eyes, half-blind...
How to tell that
The world has no center,
Only turbulent waves crashing
On rocky shores.
How to tell that
The world has no rhythm,
Only broken guitars
Crooning warbled notes...
That nothing would be left untouched
By the auctioneer's gong...
But again,
What really is there to say?
What really to say...
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