Continuing On, A Pattern Emerges

PERISTALSIS


I.

Without motion, without movement
Internal storms brew violent and pass.
Puddles pool and ripple, reflections wavering constant,
Sliding focus. Now the figure, now the trees, now the startling, brilliant
Sky-clouds inching casual and full of grace.

Peer, intent, unflinching, in. Search the blurring, shifting
Worldish pantomime. Find what is there, what is hidden,
What explains. Parse this arch, invisible spectrum cloaking
The truth, what must be

{It has to.
It has to.
I won't believe this is the way.}

What more does the mirror (this puddle?) know? What does it see
When not being watched? Like a dog resting content, nose tucked
Moist between couch leather and pant leg, it knows and will not say.
Staring dumb, expectant and receptive, it does what it is told, and apes what it is shown.

The leaves tremble on liquid branches. They age and die. They fall.
It happens as it has and will. Leaves scatter in the breeze, casual
And full of grace, catching in the fresh-mown sod blanketing
your grandmother, whose laugh would halt the globe. Those precious
Seconds ripple out from the center of the puddle, broken now by rain
Blurring your shimmering observation, nourishing
The parched and patient lawn.



II.

In the cold and silent aftermath
He hovers, strapped, unmoving,
His solid chest and hands inert, idle
And surreal. The smooth-worn leather sheath sits,
As always, at his hip, its leaden multi-tool ready and secure.

Stare out from paralysis. Gauge the still, gray fabric.
Has it moved? Reach out and make this real.
The night is black behind him. There is no sound,
No light, no movement. It does not rise. Do something

{My neck.
My friend.
Please, someone. Please help me.}

What holds us, unrelenting? Why does nothing happen?
Are we frozen in a dream, asleep as minds peel back unending
Hives of cruel, conscious reverie--eyes alive and all-aware,
Unblinking, unable to shut away what we alone project?

The steel at my spine softens with a name shrieked, hoarse
With fear. And then a bolt. Shock. Terrible, he bucks and sputters
Helpless, fast and done. Nothing more now. Nothing brings
It back. The fabric, gauged, resists all calls and rests, ready
And leaden in the night. No grace in this peace not yet known,
Not understood. Crawling, inching cold, away. He remains,
Framed in shattered glass, asleep and unblinking.