miserable still, though different,
the morning sun rose into sight.
inside the hospital I was recovering
from a dailiness quite severe
something lost somewhere
or too much of me all around
or not enough.
the interviewers
looked down with a joke
sealed into their sympathy
like medical Houdinis, like secretaries
gone for cocktails and all
their makeups’ running:
“If we asked you,
could you talk about this
more directly?”
maybe.
“Could you write it
in these margins? Is it rhythmic?”
yes.
“Does it have sound?”
it has
repeating sounds, flashes and strikes.
“It has two parts then,
the facts and the flow;
numbers and voices.
Would you like to make a recording?”
No
I’d like to make amethyst.
published in The Drunken Boat, spring 2001