Michael Joseph Walsh

from A Season

And if you kept it in     (To call the room to it)
As when the previous day’s events endeared release—

          It is perhaps my failure.
          It is perhaps all I remember.

Unwavering brattle the bird of every tempest
That as no word had ever holds familiar in all directions.

That ugliness, stone by stone, one’s former body lisped
And sputtered

As if it had actually appeared

Holding on screaming as the train hoots
Hoot hoot remarkable to hold up empty space
In a day this cold, so smooth and unworried

In the blue and red of radiant light
Where I go on eating, drinking, chewing
Where I knock the back of my hand against a stone
And call it stability, stability,

Even then
To ask O yes what truth what else
Without light is drunk or squeezed
Into amiable life, a few words

In the morning’s stiff
Neck mouthed in earshot
Rising to the surface
Of the mind a voice speaking not to me

But to the agony of birth
Of constant anticipation
Of no day or night I can account for
Called cold, unlike others, called ash

And dirty snow
Feeling ripe for something, as of the lips
A certain opening
Where the human part of dream sinks into risk.

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