J.M. Wilson
You stare into the azure distances
That eyes cannot exceed.
A serious voice bleeds
Through the wall, but you don’t hear what it says.
At night, you fold the paper in your lap
To solve the crossword; as
Descending letters pass
Onto the page, you sense a code, perhaps
A whole vocabulary, meant for you
That you may never speak.
The bedroom windows creak
As if your mother, three years dead, brings news.
The real repels our words or swallows them.
All we can do is point
In agony, anoint
In ecstasy our stuttering intent:
The sky’s bright emptiness reduced to phrases
Imploding definition;
Beyond concise confessions,
The coins, carved bones, and blood brought from dark places.
