Good Omen

We research other languages, the signs and mirrors,

so that we can inhabit the conversations of tribe

we've never met. Lava approachs down from the side of the

mountain: we say lava, in our original tongue, and

no single knows what we mean. The fire brigade is

waiting for the flames to die on the outside at the end of

the funnel I see you, cornered at the cutting side of a

sentence, like a German verb immune to criticism,

open to judgement a sky-colored shadow igniting a wall

of flame. In the devoid of contents restaurant you say: "My

tongue is upon fire," but the only lights are the

flickering candles upon every table. The contortionist

brought the audience to its feet on the contrary we weren't

watching. We decided we could solitary do one thing

at a time without becoming an phenomenon of concern for

those who were observing us from a distance. Nights

without nap endless stamina, a hundred laps,

the drawn out days ahead filled with words like "opposite

attract" charmed out in billboard letters across

the horizon. This is the correct spelling, the

proper verb ending, the appropriate declension.

We can tutor each other at uneven hours while nervously

fingering the buttons and zippers of our shirts and

blouses. This flame is for safekeeping, the tail

of a blazing star as it crosses the celestial expanse

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 1996

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