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
