One friend writes from prison,
as helpless as I am
to help him.
Another friend, dead, reveals
himself through words left behind, signs
of him I never noticed
when I thought I knew him,
the same signs I’m thinking/writing
now, in the back yard,
a fire in the chimenea, October leaves
in clumps under the trees.
From what I can tell, my self
reveals itself in spurts that I react to
afterwards. Words help me
understand what underlies—
or are they lies I write
myself, like letters from a prison
to an imagined friend
outside, where I’m not
allowed to go, locked up
inside my body in the dark,
where the impulses are born
and flash.
(Photo by chicagogeek)
November 14, 2013