The Ghent Review Volume1, Number 1, summer 2016 | Page 59

Choir of the day my reply sir, my reply. Alpha, alpha, alpha.
Undertones.
Under the tones of bells I pass which tell the time and tell their convictions.
Soft seepage of certain words and utterances as if I am required to dress for
certain occasions. Hat and cane, a steady walk that does not break into a
trot. Gentleman thus. Impoverish guardian of imperishable. Custodian.
Yet I guard only myself and the intentions of the sea. His undertones in his
questions which always begin with
“Tell me…’ and I told him.
The unspoken undertones in her eyes looking directly at me. Sea of glass
with white horse waves. Carry me, carry me. It is my impoverishment I
guard. Naked pockets. Not a coin for the rattling yet of this I make my proud
music. Light on the sea against that darkness I must guard myself against.
-Tell me
I will tell but I will not turn back no more than I will disown.
Dreams my dreams are of the sea not his shadow coming across the floor
from the doorway he blocked up.
So what language must I now speak and with what verbs will I form an
alliance?
-Tell me
I will tell but the telling will be mine no according to tradition even as I
embrace the impoverishment jingling in my pockets
Like some monk in a scriptorium
Like a solitary gull slung around the neck of inspiration
Like a long shadow crossing their thresholds and blocking up the doorway
with light