Poem
David Appelbaum
in later life
thirst comes sooner
a drop of substance
wrung out
with a grip
easy to lose
say logic
is off-stride
x equals not-x
like a cup
tipping
for the last drops
my eye appears
at the bottom
parched, liquid
my finger on
worry beads
count already lost
numbers are but
zones
of forgetting
so tell, o sybil
of the convincing
shards
dripping faucets
fill a tub
constant creation
evens things out
whiff
a hiss of radiation
old stuff disproves
change
wanting time
to run backwards
a feeling you can’t
step into one
you can
or if you do
you’re frozen
a dead letter
in the file cabinet
delivered
a century late
to a lost address
on the tip of your tongue
be realistic
(I tell my enemy)
myself
the window is dark
my self-reflection
shames
the angel into watching
from the remote rim
of my kitchen
it’s too clear
I’ll never find
the glass pane
looking
(it’s the thought after)
so the breath comes
to rest
a bubble from the bottom
of the snowflake globe
asking if it’s mine
. . . .
dark, meaning
impervious to suggestion
tender mercies
in the battle of
the ruse
as the eye pivots
from the TV screen
where the shriveled man
waits injustice
(self-initiated)
to the table where
the last apple sits
will he have sense?
‘in later life’
as if come lately
like a whiff of glad tidings
as clocks run down
as the shirt’s
tattered collar unfrays
and the mind’s rusted
circuits
clunk
entropy knows
(by charge and orbital spin)
gray is the last word
so late is better
since the present’s chronic
revision
forces the margins
to narrow
as you cross names out
barring the angels
who keep time
skidding
past infinite nays
to remind you
how a moment ago
came to this world
split the difference
the rising sun does
between the oak the line’s
brightness bridged
on both sides
the negative of which
would be a
column
incandescently
burning ahead of
the tribe
leading to the promised
new earth
their covenant true
splintered light
signifies
no tablet broken
no doubling down
David Appelbaum has work in e·ratio 11 and in e·ratio 16.