Wednesday, October 15, 2008

I'M NOT COLD, OR ALOOF, OR INDIFFERENT

I’M NOT COLD, OR ALOOF, OR INDIFFERENT


I’m not cold, or aloof, or indifferent.

I can hear you crying. It’s just that

when things get deep they stop moving,

the tree loses its voice along with its leaves and birds

and there aren’t enough stars in my eyes

to make much difference in the darkness.

Naked pain clothed in itself like the sky

doesn’t need another skin from me,

and besides, where would I put the tatoo

if I could say anything

and what could it mean

that might keep us up at night

looking through each other like telescopes?

And we’re both in the room

but the silence is the sound of one hand clapping

and when you ask me what it means through your tears

I say: Listen. You can hear for yourself.

But you want to sip the night

like an elixir from a spoon,

pull swords from the stone,

ask how many legs are on a snake,

and throw yourself like a bird against a window

when you don’t get an answer.

You’re looking for the return address of a shipwreck

like a lighthouse in a lifeboat

drifting through the fog,

an enlightened pariah in a manger of stars,

and I’m throwing black holes up against the wall like dice,

but you don’t want to hear that.

You want to apprentice yourself to the lightning

like the impious revelation

of an alternative universe

and start something that shines,

and when it doesn’t,

deepen the darkness to make it impossibly brighter

by putting out your eyes.


PATRICK WHITE