Homages to Porchia

  • The imagination begins from what is

not what is not.

  • A letter is always arriving, always

opening itself in my hand.

  • In darknesses, all darknesses fall away

from the body.

  • When the words of the dead are remembered,

lips move in the grave.

  • Having seen the death angel early, I was meant

to mourn for life.

  • With each silence, the angel

flies through the room.

  • Lips at my ear:  the angel is here.
  • Ghosts speak out for rescue.  Bereft,

I search and search.

  • When the angel wakes, he calls me,

and I always obey,

sleeping then in his cold place.

  • There was a pinhole where

I could see the whole

landscape of myself;

but I lost it, refusing

to look.

  • I speak, I listen and seek over my life

like a bat, for the echoes of sound things.

  • When I failed to cultivate a memory of objects —

pottery, spoons, the razor, measuring weights,

postage stamps, the coffee cup, the pen —

the metaphors of my life disappeared.

  • I wish for what is never and it is infinite.
  • You have asked me to estimate the numbers of

my lost feelings,

and I am grateful.

  • To write is to contain, to hold

the true against the true.

  • The visible wound distracts us from

the invisible bleeding.

  • There are things that are not mysteries.

All words explain them.

  • For each person born,

a fable of glass begins.

  • The truth is action, it moves.

All these words are lies, and they remain.

  • If you are a magician, unlock my life.
  • My hand wears the glove

that writes these words.

One Response to “Homages to Porchia”

  1. Kathie Says:

    Thank you for sharing your thoughts and inspiring my own. I have been reading in the shadows when stolen moments allow. Since I want the children to experience life rather than a screen, for the moment, I am trying to limit my own screen time as well. Hope you are well and wishing you the best.

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