The dream of Narcissus,
that there would be a silence loud as time The dream of the writer,
that there could be a silence loud as time The dream of time,
that rest might come The dream of rest,
that unrest might arise The dream of the palm,
that pilgrims would enter the village The dream of the village,
that they depart with their fronds And the house dreaming of its leveling,
and the exile of his well The dream of night,
that the day would be purified The dream of day,
that the dark would be lifted And the dream of the dream,
but who's to speak of this Dream of a Language that Speaks Hello Gozo, here we are,
the spinning world, has it come this far?
Hammering things, speeching them, nailing the anthrax
to its copper plate, matching the object to its name,
the star to its chart. (The sirens, the howling machines,
are part of the music it seems just now, and helices of smoke
engulf the astonished eye; and then our keening selves, Gozo,
whirled between voice and echo.) So few and so many,
have we come this far? Sluicing ink onto snow?
I'm tired, Gozo, tired of the us/not us,
of the factories of blood, tired of the multiplying suns
and tired of colliding with the words as they appear
without so much as a "by your leave," without so much as a greeting.
The more suns the more dark - is it not always so -
and in the gathering dark Ghostly Tall and Ghostly Small
making their small talk as they pause and they walk
on a path of stones, as they walk and walk,
skeining their tales, testing the dust,
higher up they walk - there's a city below,
pinpoints of light - high up they walk,
flicking dianthus, mountain berries, turk's-caps with their sticks.
Can you hear me? asks Tall. Do you hear me? asks Small.
Questions pursuing question. And they set out their lamp
amid the stones. for Yoshimasu Gozo From Company of Moths, by Michael Palmer
Copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by Michael Palmer | 
