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? The night is black behind him. There is no sound,
No light, no movement. It does not rise.
Reach out and make this real. 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 his 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 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.
III.
Holy God, how horrible.
No one is moving.
No one is helping.
I can't see them.
Call. Go.
Step quickly on the shoulder. Ignore the restless, murmuring
Tension of waiting traffic. No one can move. This is all
We are aware of now. This is not pavement.
No one would lie alone on the highway. The highway is not this still.
{He crawled out.
Hold him.
I hope this is the right thing to do.}
How did I get here? When will they get here?
Just hold him and keep him quiet and safe. His
Eyes so wide, and arms quivering so cold. Just hold
Him and tell him to keep still, it's okay. I hope it is okay
The ambulance is slow. This traffic. Keep this
Kid calm. Keep this kid quiet. He must be 30, shivering
Fear and traumatic innocence. Hold him like your own.
Know he needs that now. A stranger's blood
Staining my sweatshirt. He must not lose constraint. He must
Not slip away from checked delirium. The ambulance
Is coming. It will come for his friend first.
IV.
Oh, come on.
What the hell is this?!
Why don't they put up
A sign earlier on?
I don't have time for this.
Slam the wheel, palm and wrist. Check the clock again
and curse. No one is moving. This is the last
Straw at the end of ten fucking hour day. Why don't
People learn to goddamn drive?
{Just another selfish dick.
Doesn't realize other people have things to do.
Can I get around on the shoulder?}
How long is thing going to take. Why are there no signs, no lights?
Why do they do construction this late. Why today
Of all days? I can't even see what the problem is.
There better be a good goddamn reason.
I told my son I'd be home by nine. This goddamn job.
This goddamn town. I should just take the fucking train,
I'd get home quicker than this nonsense. I just want
To spend time with my kid. Is that too much to ask?
She'll probably call any second know. The minute I'm late
She thinks I'm dead on the road somewhere, no matter
How many times I tell her that's not going to happen.
V.
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. See and know where
You are now. Note the thick, orthopedic soles edging
The pool, in perfect contact with the pavement,
Your knees below, holding steady your frame.
{It has improved.
I nearly died.
It's completely true that I nearly died.}
How long can I stand here and notice I am
Not moving? I cannot remove the burning,
The memory. I won't. It doesn't matter. The clouds
keep inching casual and graceful with the sun.
Perspective now and knowledge. Time to sit
With certain truths and reasons known and all
Irrelevant. Motions now no longer involuntary, not
Addressing nearer goals, not steeped in justification.
I admire the gently blurring pools, and crunch the dying
Leaves gathered along the gutters home. I will walk
And choose the distance, pace, and breaking point.
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