The world trembles with counterfeits,
denies each story with similes,
day after day, says nothing
of the utterly lost.
The sky is shut, obscure
on the now and never again,
everywhere the heart is a decoy.
I sleep among bright eccentricities,
inevitably wake to their burden.
Take me to the edge,
far from the flatness of the word
the nest of the ordinary eye.
In this arena of plastic arrows
enter like a compass
in my left side, circle
a rarer kind of joy.
Make a sound that’s so alone
that no one can miss it,
that whoever hears it
knows the bliss of my exile.
Want me like the hebrew theonym,
want me like the x in the word sex.
One is never too concise.
One is never rare enough.