What is in that room, that solace place,
with its shield walls and silent wool carpets –
in your word head, your thoughtful think maker;
the window unlooked in upon? And then a horse man
knocks at your door and your picture is taken, and no one can
decide later who looks more like they wanted to escape the daylight.
The letters just keep coming with their inquisitions and stutters, and
what wants to implore you, too nudge and push you, make
you dream and plan, plays like a landscape radio in your
head, bringing with it an entire scene of you playing
chords in an orchestra of poets unaccustomed
to what a string or a breath might do.
My my, there again, drug out of your
silence into some kind of strange and bright
daylight, all squinty and tear eyed, with nothing in
your pocket resembling a ticket too, or away from the
word that represents the quite room in the play that you were
writing about before you were so abruptly and unkindly interrupted.
In a time like this; one of need, one of nakedness, one of confusion
about what is expected, or one where it seemed some attention
was required, you might think of the wind you felt through
your hair after overcoming some other digression, the
time you found that there was a key around your
neck, or a map stamped to your forehead.