|Oct/Nov 2009 Poetry|
A naked man stood at the end of a field
with only the frail hairs on his ears for decoration.
He neither recognizes the watercolor of the morning sky
nor the mountains like chipped cones
or the tusks of a vampire asleep,
nor does he recognize the empty plastic cup in the frozen dew
as he recognizes his blood
and the mathematical precision with which the planets in his entrails revolve.
He steps on snow as though it were pine needles
and knows the cracks in ice like his own bladder.
What he knows he cannot say;
what he knows, I wish I could.