6.22.2013

Contact Language


Contact Language



Mother,

the inky   
spindly cities
are in ruins
alphabets adrift
reconstruction impossible
the land is without refuge
a diameter without dimension
echo answering echo
emptiness consoling emptiness

I am writing you
from a crumbling church where
in its thick-rooted dark
I found a few others
by their heavy breath,
snorts, sighs and whispered speech
and one by the drifting refrains
of her off-key devotions.

Otherwise only the rain
is true to itself—

falling

it has also taken shelter here
just inside the door—

falling

where an old man
hesitates between worlds
gulping like a fish—

falling

on the brown frocked monk
watching us
rebar poking through
his scotch-taped hand.

asha
Mexico