Called Back, Called Back
Acquit me, make me
purblind, unbloomed, a thing that,
remains dormant, unused, none
among many. As the bulb that persists within its sullen,
despondent mood, alive, but no more, no better
than some kind of senseless meat.
I turn away but wherever I turn I encounter
the same soft refrain—
I did not call you, lie back down.
I did not call, lie back, lie down.
There is death and then
there is sleep, or I no longer know who’s calling or
what I’ve heard or what I’ll say. As, when roused once more
by your voice-light, its endless drag and weight,
as a tuber on the verge of swelling, the called-forth,
fruited body, caught between monad and many,
between almost and already.
Called Back, Called Back is reprinted from Glean (Nightboat Books, 2007).