Face of the Author
At last the closing of the day
opens the window to a face.
A self-setting, a moon;
blind spirit – awareness-glass
that devils the stare.
Cannot bear to go on seeing eyes, hair –
all that style – what style evades –
a god beneath reflection?
Behind the head two horns shoot off –
a highway in the desert; demons.
One called for ecstatic words; shelves
bare as crowless fields after harvest.
Winter’s sterility licking the countryside
with low white yields of nothingness –
that blessed root to pull – uncovering
yet more of least. Least rises. I stare
onto a page ink throws back, an alibi
lying set down, a shaving bite of teeth.
Buildings past the jocund face pimple
me bright, I’m architectured, stone
and wood, no less here than there.
Can’t be good to rehearse a loss
in verse; not this voice –
how it wants to start and end out of
a transient apercu – discursive glancing up
pained, forming opinions, a U-turning moan.
The man across from the poet looks so queer.
Only when the library closes do we disappear.
UEA, December 7, 2010