Lost in these pages is a rhapsodist. His tense
he calls the “circumspective locative.”
He thrumbs his song on a lute of apprehension,
entering the arena, unheard and unseen,
as one who has not yet appeared in time,
or as one who was never born and never dies,
or as one who, with each entrance, creates the sense
in which he is to be understood, then
vanishes in the telling, before the applause,
in advance of inspiration’s emboldened pomp,
the shreddings of an abandoned attire
left behind in the escape, in the hushed exit
through the interstices of a pause's colon –
gone for a holiday in language’s
Cancun, where silence is a waving stewardess.
[Previous: As You Walk Through Your Poem]