destination: Turin
I drive to the desert, I'm not sure which one.
Through the windshield, which is cracked where a stone
left it's place on earth and was met by speeding glass,
the sun becomes as molten copper blown to dandelion blur,
sharding the darkening sky.
Some distance ahead lie the mesas. Too far.
I will park before the sun is gone,
and walk out into the sand.
With luck, the wind will cover my steps,
leaving waves of taupe that do not move.
I will settle where no one can reach me.
Dissolution will be dry.
Peace will be senseful.
Houston, 1992
Mother, pull down the blinds, it's bright in here.
I've something to explain.
It's about the need to leave the television running,
the door open, the lights on.
To confuse those who will come looking,
(they always do, you know)
by leaving everything in order.
"No sign of struggle",
but I wanted to leave.
To breathe without anyone knowing.
Dissolution seamless, peace invisible.
It happens most when I am
alone, watching trees, noticing the apparent, shocked, close to sleep.
Movement seems the only way
away. It may be why I grind my teeth,
and why I, for some reason, despise roses
unless they are white.
Though I do love the concept of angels.
To move amongst men
without their knowledge or consent.
To touch them gently,
brush them with words and wings.
To lift from earthly constraints,
to linger in the crossdrafts of lovers' partings and meetings,
a presence that can reach,
then drift to the expanses of some unknown plain,
and see the sun without a windshield.
veronica n [ML, fr. Veronica St. Veronica] (1700) : an image of Christ's face
said to have been impressed on the cloth
that St. Veronica gave him
to wipe his face with
on the way
to his crucifixion.
GLS
5.2.92
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