Someone waits at my door. Because he is dead he has time but I have my secrets-- this is what separates us from the dead. See, I could order take-out or climb down the fire escape, so it's not as though he is keeping me from anything I need. While this may sound like something I made up, it is not; I have forgotten how to lie, despite all my capable teachers. Lies are, in this way, I think, like music and all is the same without them as with. The fluid sky retains regret, then bursts. He is still there, standing in the hall, insisting he is someone I once knew and wanted, come laden with gifts he cannot return. If I open the door he'll flash and fade like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds one summer night at the edge of the world.
When everyone was granted their childhood
wish for invisibility, it turned out
to be less erotically useful than we all
had imagined. Since then the first
legitimately wild idea I had I tamed
and named Thom Yorke, after a pony
who’d clomped among the precincts
of my visible youth, refusing
to be rode, my use of the word first
also proving to have been based
on an unfounded sense of possibility
that ill-defines my generation still.
Hidden message: we cannot measure
the corruption of our age
but we can make the heat of it
ever hotter by leaping onto the pyre.
On hearing the kvetching of coyotes
in an August night, my doppelganger
climbs up out of the lake
and into a constellation—when light
and death both want you,
one of them might not get its way.
I’ve given names to a dozen other ideas
and deleted those names
because who could they ever have saved.
Impossibly sweet and recalcitrant
old Thom Yorke though,
best pony anybody knew.