The First Song of a Recluse
You speak in such
foreign tongue that I get
drowned
just beneath the tip
of your last word.
Last night I sat by the seashore,
swooned by the hush of water
slipping off
the floor of the sea.
Do you snuggle your breath
to little things
when your heart slogs around?
I leave with the thickness
of your face filming
behind my eyes,
the rum for next morning’s whisper.
I go with your words spreading
too wide and not eating into meaning.
I pile them on the palm of my thoughts.
I peel them apart and show
them to the sun
peering headlong through the frosted
glass of my window.
I would nuzzle my nose
in the air to gasp for Echo’s
breath, to reverberate these last
words stiff with puzzle.
I’m in no hovel, my skin
has known no decay, no wife
of a god.
Let the sun uncurl
a full wrap of grief
hidden at the back of your tongue
when you whisper, all is okay.
Let the echo of your furled
kvetch never wait to get to the far
corner
of our lone nights
where we sidle to escape
terror
forged by society.