My friend,
Let me ask of you, if I may,
with the aid of the Muse who has guided me thus far,
along the path I have travelled,
which intersected yours, as you may recall,
when the Sun shone brighter in the sky, stars were fixed,
and storm clouds were another person’s shadow,
about a matter of some concern, personally;
an imposition I would not think to assert,
without having known you, in the time when words had left
us each,
the time we no longer mention, except by the most oblique of references
conscious of the sorrow underlying our efforts to survive, persevere,
looking into the mirror of our souls, finding there no well of insight, no
center within the iris,
no plumb line between our heads and our hearts, yet
we took
whatever
we needed to take,
sometimes two,
grasping at air with our tongues,
still bleeding from vain attempts
to quell the instinctual need
to howl at the Moon’s craters’ lightness; albeida;
starring at our fates, dust in cold orbit
I find myself these days poised, unsteady;
as if reaching for balance: blindfolded; a snail crawling the length of a straight
razor; an island under siege from all directions, with the volcano
stirring
inside,
birds’ beaks thrashing my Promethean liver; severed fingers in buttered bowls;
bards’ slit maws’ gargles, a baobab adrift at sea;
out of place –
It is not about the bedbugs of life, I think; (certainly) therefore, in grids; I made my peace
with a cockroach, a pumice stone, and an iron griddle; have seen the Grand
Canyon, Niagara Falls, and the cathedral of Notre Dame – before the fire;
more than mere trifles, less
than mortality;
“Which wishy-washy witch wishes wishbones well”, was whispered once, wistfully.
Are you distracted yet, again?
Is this the point on the line when the circular becomes perpendicular, properly
triangulated?
Meet you halfway,
yours can be the bigger half,
but the last word is still
uncertain, albeit ineffable, they say, . . .
So, we’ll dispense with the
foreplay,
squaring the edges at the horizon of introspection, calling
the surf to retreat, wishing good tidings, prizing drift-would with all Kant,
at least for a mo(re)-ment; an extended pause, a hiatus between assignments of being
Why haven’t you answered my dream mail?
I inhale, you exhale
We have the same birthday
We share the same fingerprints We should not be so incommunicado, eh?
I look forward to your reply, Or will we each be left, alter-half-egos?
Be well,
—
Thomas A. E. Hesketh was born in Toronto, Canada, on a cusp, last millennium; none of it his fault. Most of what has happened to him has happened to others, too. He enjoys poetry because of its verbal range, except the caesuras, and chess, which is non-verbal, except the regicide.
Forum Literary Magazine 