Facing the Wall
Even if he falls flat forward, like a long-distance runner
deprived of air at the last lap, and blacks out,
the I in him would refuse to fall into the waiting shadow.
Ten years has cultivated in him a self-awareness of another instinct.
Of course, he has acquired that, scientifically, it is impossible
for a body of flesh to dissolve into a concrete wall,
as he is not standing in front of a focus lamp,
and no pistols or crossbows are spitting slimy drops from behind.
In this exitless room with open books of riddles on display,
he walks and pauses, trying to figure out the typographical errors,
while his shadow rolls down his back like an ephemeral stream.
Without shadow, he can openly rock others’ women on his laps.
The art of love is full in his hand, solid love does not need
the trigger of vision, and his tongue can release at any moment
its spring of “Oh, stop this beautiful moment!”
to turn a ten-year-long meditation into a rotten prayer.
The only suspending question is whether or not
angels will be hurt by a suicide and cry their eyes out.
Since he has no shadows any more, he might as well
break through the high window and do a free fall,
so his invisible body can give a pupil to one eye of the wall.
Oct. 13-14, 2008