On Our Imperfect Knowledge of Void

History is not continuous-the divorce must occur

there was no second of charity. I stepped out

of granite into the rainwashed alley.

I rode the clear bus into the angry hum of sun.

When did the desolate become horizon? When did this roof

open like a cabaret, and on the outside come kicking

your small brilliant foot?

all around me lie in waits the humid air, the high skirts

of dusk, dusk's improbably drawn out legs. There's a ferret

loose in my chest-he sooty vapors constantly

he drums his fingers upon cheap felt.

I signed the papers. You want me to say

I felt independent What I felt ;

was like skating upon a frozen lake ?·.'.-?·?· v

that giant bass revolve slowly.

My head has doubled in size, my tongue's

becoming a silver dollar. You want me to detain saying

how at last I discovered passion, by what means I moved into a trailer,

drank beer and sang in Spanish each night, all night.

How tears cauterize the face where desire is received.

The divorce did not advance through, I still live in the great house.

I take a roam in evening wear

by the banks of my lagoon. In my mind

you're a plummeting breast-documented

olive trees-bark of the curved catched blind bass

the thinnest wrists of coal. Please accept

this invitation, please sit in that overplush chair.

I speak to you from chlorine: I say it's serviceable to be alone.

JOSHUA COREY'S first work Selah (Barrow Street Press, 2003) was culled by

Robert Pinsky as the winner of the Barrow way Press Book Contest.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jan/Feb 2004

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