The word of your name returns as echo. It is my voice but
watery, heavy with final syllable. The sound skips across the rain-dark plane
of the afternoon.
An echo can originate anywhere: valley, wall, person,
recollection, theory, guesswork. One must traverse-try; one must envision the
striking-surface. Will I grow expert in the forlorn art?
The object receives the skill of the inquiry. The cleaner
the return, the closer the object. But proximity may be a map, the coordinates where
echo may originate, in minutes and seconds.
Proximity might be painful but echo requires neighborhood.
If I am to find you, I must suffer through the possibility of shape
bent-against blurry color. (Imprecise, me.)
What is echolalia? Echo et alia? As if there were echo + echoes,
which confounds the mission to discover. The inquiry at a remove; the jangle of
clashing voices + directions.
If the echo never varies. The same stolid note, a clatter in
place of language. An echo becomes a bird. An echo becomes a bird climbing
through the echo of mistranslation.
A realtor might say: “Echolocation! Echolocation!
Echolocation!” I imagine you finding this witty, whatever your state. Laughter,
I realize, might disarray the apparatus that sustains you.
Lightning hacks through air toward a tree. The very same
splintering noise, a limb separating from the tree. These two at once,
lightning and the heavy wood tearing from its trunk.
What I mean is, I am trying to locate you.
Many years ago, I concluded a poem by writing [that I] try to catch echoes with my hands. At last, I know what these words mean. I will persevere.
Many years ago, I concluded a poem by writing [that I] try to catch echoes with my hands. At last, I know what these words mean. I will persevere.
2 comments:
Thanks, Dan. -- Casey
You bet, man. We're all praying for a full recovery.
Dan
Post a Comment