The
Solitary Boy
The
poetry of wolves is scratched in bark and dust,
in
wilderness beyond the road, beyond fences, names
and
neon signs, beyond the autumn graveyard stones
and
time engraved, where footprint evidence of
daylight
strangers presents itself to midnight,
and
a solitary boy startles the blinking night with
prayer.
"Ramirez,"
he says, though there's no one there,
"the
world is broken open now like a hollow stone, like
rain.
I can go anywhere. My legs will take me like a train
into
winter and beyond, into paradise of lipstick rooms
and
trumpet smoke, laughter, shards of sunlight breaking
on
my face, my paper pages curling on fire sidewalk,
songs
about this single moment, single tear for you
that
falls and breaks and crashes in the spoon
you
held to burn the syrup of hard desire for nomad sky.
For
you, for I, for dreams and death," he says,
and
pauses to consider this, his lack of shaking now,
his
even
breath, the way his hands are steady, even in this
cold.
"Ramirez,"
he says, "I can go anywhere, yes,
but
all my doors are closed.
My
eyes see only light and dark inside of walls.
My
ears hear only certain silence, the wind,
the
way it calls, the way it draws me
into
circus circles, flames of perfect vision
perishing
inside the rings of perfect supplication,
turning
up my hands."
And
then he stands, he turns around
as
though she is behind him
in
magic moonlight, in cemetery gown.
But
all there is is forest shadow
and
the glittering blades of time.
"Ramirez,"
he says again, sadly now,
as
he gathers up his things to begin his westward trek
to
another place, another city:
"The
starlight has made me blind.
I
will go sightless into this future, into this
broken
paradise.
And
all that's left to do is learn my lines
and
once more change my name."
Then
the solitary boy is gone, leaving his footprints
with the others,
and
only the poetry of wolves remains.
