POEMS OF DAVID WILEY   

FATAL

DISAPPEARANCE

 

As the ghost of the spirit,

as the ghost of the flesh,

the vessel made of phosphenes,

the towering shadow

of the last person left.

fades in and out,

almost palpable,

at times almost a force,

moved and moving,

enchanted, as a garden

at dawn is enchanted,

seen and seeing,

at times,

breathing, even singing,

at times,

talking shape,

now and then,

becoming a Hydra,

at times inventing

the specter of progeny,

of its own design for bridges

between skin,

between the memories

in the eyes,

it tells us again

that the patient

will not live

unless the patient

can find a way

to occupy some space.

 

 

All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.  ©  Copyright 2002 David Wiley.