AGITATION: reconciliation
Maybe it wasn’t a him.
Maybe it was a shadow from puppet strings of light
and smoke or a blindered horse bolting.
Maybe it was a bad-eyed animal
that limped and slurred. Maybe it was something that breathed but had no
shape.
Not him but a whack of dust.
Imagine being air that cannot drop
cannot land cannot hurt
Imagine not being able to die
not having a hand in things
Give me your hand, O you who might not be a him, as you
handed your hand before—insistent
as a leash.
(Memory is a small patch of dirt
by a tree where nothing grows. An actual place.
The tree dead in its tracks.)
Give me your hand. May it turn from rope to flesh. Where might I take you
this time without imagination only the facts back
to the tree where you felled me
where the tree did nothing but sprawl in moonlight O beautiful!
(O tree!)
Give me your hand May I release my own
