Tuesday, February 7, 2012

time and date of my choosing

“...This is no sorrowful day, you can be sure, I’ve got no axe to grind at all...”
—Swan Song by Bruce Hornsby


‘muffled snow‘ — the sound — the still world —
the just-fallen white --
the ‘any sound’ -- laughter (sobbing) transformed; absorbed first
by the fluff trees and marshmallow carpet.
(finally it reaches my ear) -- diminished.


the night before O.J. Simpson’s acquittal, Prosecutor Clark,
on tape, pleading a final time; deliberations to follow. “He did it,”
she said to the jurors—but for the muffled snow, perhaps,
a different outcome? Still, could we not hear through such obfuscation?
(even in relatively warm Los Angeles; muffled.) the snow.


2001, beautiful late summer morning, the towers fell into muffled snow.
(my body shooting bolt upright in bed—TV on overnight) “And it appears
a plane has...” But my wide eyes still gluey—and cotton batting
in my head? Tom Brokaw rambling on and on, as I clear what seems
a quart of snow from my ears. -- Is this real?


and now, with years having passed—all the many times—
all the muffled snow -- I am so confused. I’ve become another.
--barely recognizable --
Can you not hear me?


but there is a time and date when the dazed middle-aged man—
I indeed recognize as myself -- finally -- emerges. Has the snow cleared?
Have I actually chosen this day?


—or have I been tightly wrapped in a chrysalis? did I confuse
the swaddling for the sound after snowfall? do I see a light now? -- yes?

(the kind you see at the end)

I can hear the sounds, yes?

-- answer me --


or at this time—and on this date—have I become a butterfly?