The Day

 

give name to nothing. there’s

no body to it. nothing to give

or to take form.

somehow thin. and against

the distance – more distance.

for the day spend most hours

trying to find the end

of the day. trying to push

this thing before me

to the end. not a stone. no weight

of any kind.

instead, light. transparent.

something unnameable because

any name given

is merely a convenience. a lie.

perhaps chemistry. perhaps

some history within me

which remains a mystery and so

I live through the mystery.

or the mystery lives through me.

governs me. that is what they will say.

so say nothing. instead choose

the music I find fitting

and listen while watching

through headphone deafness

as the mute world passes.

one image after another.

bodies acting upon bodies.

my own not removed but muted, too.

muted. muted world. the thin

veil of what cannot be named –

that must have been lost.

 

 

 

 

 

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Clark Chatlain has published poems in several journals, including Natural Bridge, Revolution House, Caketrain and Crab Creek Review. He currently lives and works in Missoula, Montana.

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