What is this part of me that Lingers, to overhear my own conversation? I lie rigid in the rigid circle. It regards me from diametric points, Without sex, and wise. We lie in a rigid city, anticipating winds. It circles me, intimating only by position That it knows more than I want to. There, it makes a gesture too masculine Before ecstatic scenery. Here, it suggests femininity, Pausing at gore and bone. It dithers and stammers, confronted by love. It bows a blunt, mumbling head before Injustice, rage, or even its own ignorance. Still, I am convinced that At the proper shock, it would Rurn and call me, using Those hermetic syllables I have abandoned On the crags of a broken conscience, On the planes of charred consciousness, At the entrance to the ganglial city. And I would raise my head.
Reason for writing:
This poem is roughly twenty-five years old; inspired by a
long series of personal disasters (largely of my own making).
I was talking to myself, as I have always done, trying to
make sense of the situation. Sometimes I succeed in spite
of myself.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Ronnie A. Herrin / Libra.