← v2n2, Fall 2003
Poetry · Volume 2, Number 2

The Space

~

The Self sounds like a guy raking leaves

Off his walk. It sounds like the scrape of the rake.

The soul is just a story the scraping tells.

The Self has no story. It is a sound. It scrapes

Against all things. He lets the rake do all

The talking now, the raked walk keeps the stars

From blowing out in the night sky

Above his house. It isn't music that he hears:

The sore screech of the wheel in the addict's voice,

Who, having kicked it, becomes the quiet shape

The shadow of his body makes. A rhythm

Only, 2/4 time, without a melody, the flesh

A lighter gray around the scar the stitches left.

Sore screech of the wheel that never rests,

Thin girl at her loom. Thin girl at her loom.