Puppet X,19 Poem by Jerry Ratch

19



Those that I carried

The exposed

Their little burned suitcases

Bodies emerging
from the wind

You all know

I mean
that you see them

Their skins
coming to the surface

The spinal night…

Can they be called fires?

They went into
their flaming colors
and closed the doors

White silence
The vessels of emotion

Then too hot, then too cold

Nobody comes
from there

* *

We have notions

Can't get to
sleep
at a memorable hour

You yourselves

We all do
who live in closets

Crying's
not allowed

Open weeping

Little you do
as it happens…

I stretch
I yawn with indifference -

that old cleverness -

and pray for the survival
of something
human