Rescue

Pushing towards

the end of another year in which I probably

didn’t die. In which I raise the paw of a baby,

such a little hand and wave at the growling

furtive blasting sage black face

of barreling time. I place my bag

on the ground of the platform. I check my

watch. It’s mine. I’m not

Jacob Boehme. No. There are moments

that only connect to other ones.

This is the nature of time in which

we are brave. I don’t have

a little life. Yet I speak to you

through it. Look at the hand

I wave. My hand is strong and tan

with the branches of my blood

with the tiny spots and golden

hairs, with the protective

tips hidden by glass

tapping along. I hear you.

The seering sounds of the world

occur. It seems a system upholds

the presence of the not me

and its nothing alone.

In the rooms of the culture

across millions of wires and

gaps the invisible forms

that travel fast the meaningless

blasts of light are heading

right through my chest

and me? a bird seems to cheep

yes right through you too.

Inaccessible, ineradicable

the embarassment of being part of it

glimmering a workmen lifts his

chinging hammer

one piercing the other & the

next and the next

a joke for a god to be breathing through

the world the day a dish

©1996 by Eileen Myles