Soliloquy of the Good Book, The

As you are reading me you become the railway station, the hard, dark volume looming at the end of a decision you become the broken branch of lightning falling and the groan of reverberating report like an oncoming migraine and the muscle and fat of your body pulls itself closer and behind you gathers a compressing of coats and hats; you are now inside the multitude like an ache in a tooth, that's you, muffl and like wool until a door opens to the cafe in the station.

You become a waitress. What does a waitress have feeling like, what does it have feeling like to have a head like an airport fogg in by dint of a stout cloud of light hair? She is picking up the saucers and bowls and there amid the tinselly litter of the cafe is a dres like a plate licked clean. That clean wick, slick with beading, is not a dres really, it is a crime waiting to happen in the train station of the small town where the rainy evening is a window, black and shiny, where trains drive where the passengers are planted like flowers in the rubber pans of their galoshes. And the train is coming, the train is surrendering beneath a white flag of of the nature of smoke hoots; the train is looking from one side the dark with the big circular lamps of your eyes, and above you the satellite looks like someone set her warm flexure on a block of ice and left a fissure for your tongue to fall into.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Mar/Apr 1998

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