Christopher Presfield
ALWAYS

Homage Cesar Vallejo

the voice is huge like an airship
floating in gray, skied stone
spread out to shadow, to death
and life not even God would lift;
how it waits in books, your comb
and crimp in a collar, that spider
you considered killing, the urge
to write oneself into morning
drowning in a glass of beer,
while men go mad down corridors
you can't walk without a cane;
how each night it lingers more
like an old chant, a spent candle
the tip of every finger recalls.

 

 

 

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