The clothing of my longing shuns the rare
beauty of my hands—
which is obsolescence
It does not shed austerity at
a turn of particular light
or on an assemblage of words
Its wave is rather on a page
with a darkening elusive to standard touch
It’s better to endure
shards glued to a single blank sheet
than to endure laundered faces who
keep returning at the
door of my consciousness.
I can attach a kite to my loose-leaf
reverberrational telos
In the hopes that a pure absorption of
that one thought will trek
back safely to haunt, not just my hands.
_______________________________
(16 April 2005)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
that was powerful and compelling Cheryl. I reread it over and over.