Song of my other

My brother is a turning tongue that rides along the day.  Below the single cloud, among the every breath, even between skin.  My brother is an image here, though none that we can feel.  It is my understanding that all else is the matter.  That the single problem of poetry is not the integral mercy of its meter (injustice it diseases), but that it is enacted nearly motionless, always at that distance, from a chair.

How do you touch anything, but with a hand.  A hand that eats the keys in your pocket.  Grabs the pen and scribbles.  Yes this is a muddy state.  But hands are apt engulfers.  Each other is a symmetry of space, a delving in divine.  With hands like these what could we posit to need that isn’t there for the taking, within reach.

That words don’t come from our minds is the very cerebral impulse.  Look at the offerings.  Minds are merely manners, itching the length of day, dusting off soberly at night—or what replaces night when the mind’s made up and light’s out.  Rhythm is not a ghostly saint.  It is not a snake.  It is a blind master, full of dumb and carrying luck.

My brother is a ghostly saint (though not a snake).  He exists in perfect squalor, a bum in an encompassing chair, without legs or, for that, without a head.  He is the golden shrine that hides—two hands and no mind.  My brother is a ghastly impasse.  He touches, never touched.  He sings a sunken lullaby and weds this pleasant trap.