WHAT LIVES IN POEMS
—D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
Things that can no longer speak for themselves.
People who have met themselves on the street at night.
Empty houses filled with the sound of doorbells.
The finest tribute. Rooms so dense with objects they create
Weather. Rooms knee-deep with diamonds. The voices of children.
A kind of singing never heard previously on this sad earth.
Storms contained by single lines. Stopped by periods.
Tales of madness and cruelty. The raw stuff of souls unformed.
Entire cites embedded in dense fog filled with fleeting colors.
The ability to hear things no one else has heard.
A sudden pouring of salt. The eyes of childhood.
There is so much more. These rooms are impossible to sweep.
Beautiful flights of rainbow-colored birds.
Sensible emptiness with a different concept of order
Unrestrained by conversation or the necessity of a body.
I will look for you there.
The warehouse of songs.
The secret hours of the day and night.
The most wonderful things seeking words
Only in this pulsing of language.
—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for his fine poem today!