All day at the boiler room door, dreaming fishing must follow,
after the shovelful I’m sending through the door’s fiery maw.
The place at the gravel pit? No, the pond stocked with rainbows.
Use a bluetail fly, there are no worms this time of year, the lure
outwaits any lack of hunger. But I’m still shoveling at the door,
which never opens. You can tell by the absence of everything.
Oxygen. Perfume. Smooth skin’s feel. The opening and closing
of whatever is missing here, which will be found above water
where the red haired high school friend waits with her Healey
running, wondering if I’m coming, wondering if I have money,
hoping I’m thirsty not only for the Paisano but for her body–
or so I think, thinking nothing is to be thought, neither Fear
or Trembling nor its sequel, The Sickness unto Death. Who is
reading Wittgenstein now that Kierkegaard has outlived him.
That’s no question any laborer in the boiling rooms of world
renown would ask. A new language posits a new world. Or does
the proposition in German go the other way around? Most likely,
I lost the verb opening the open mouth of the fire without a word.
(30 September 2010)