Joshua Keiter

There isn’t a face among us
that could go unnoticed
although it is in our interest
to best ourselves with wit
or understated mayhem as in
the winter spent underneath glass
as weather permits, turning
off the light switch to get
a handle on the concavity
of the room. I was waiting
for a moment or two, before
the sun became diminished
by the direction of our eyes,
lifted for a second to train
stars to shine brighter, as
if there could be any resemblance
between a face looking to the heavens
and faces met in glance upon the earth.
If you’ll excuse me I have to wash the chance
out of my eyes. There, that’s better.

There could have been a mistranslation
in the movement between the page
and the text, the light that lit
could only obscure the stage.
Line please. Write that down.
There were undeniable clouds of smoke
and ashes in paper cups.
By the doorway to the exit,
the cans full of sodden earth
used as props to let the wind in.
You were the voice I came to see
every night. Every night I touched
your hand and called it mine.
Kissed your fingers to prevent a word
from being spoken. And still
the succession of events kept me
from keeping you. The lights came up,
and there you were, somehow not
yourself. You took a bow, and I stood up.
I wanted you back in the night.

The reason I keep expecting
that tree to start falling over
is because I bent my head
in an unnatural position
and I don’t know how to set it right.
Of course that doesn’t give nature
the right to betray the laws of physics,
although you’d be surprised
at what the power of suggestion
can accomplish. For instance,
the other day I was walking in the field
marked “please do not walk on the grass,”
and I said there used to be grass here,
and the next day it was gone.
But around that time I started walking
on the pavement, careful not to step
on any of the cracks in case a tree
might suddenly burst through.
I wouldn’t want my misguided direction
to inhibit any potential growth.

I fell down with the moon in my face
and you said it was only a matter of time
before the questions I insisted on asking
were answered by virtue of not
having an answer. I only colored
in between the lines to leave
the shape I traced untouched.
It was a faulty strategy.
You kept looking elsewhere
to justify the existence of an elsewhere.
If I weren’t so preoccupied
with the length of your stare,
I might have made it beyond
this space which I define
as the last outpost before your eyes
disappear. But it only lasts a second
and is gone. If it’s true
that every day we recreate
the birth of the universe I guess
you might miss it if you forget to blink.

What I could have said was
if you wait for me
I’ll be right there.
But I didn’t. So instead
you left, just as I was
turning to leave myself,
stretching out for your hand.
An unnecessary gesture,
it was already empty.
The frame isn’t there.
Somebody forgot to leave
the edge in the photograph,
and now it’s everywhere.
I don’t know where it begins
or ends. And that’s not even
a dominant characteristic.
Although I wish I’d remembered
to leave out the image in focus,
since it’s only a blur I knew
I would never see again.

I’m convinced a body
doesn’t need a house
without a name. Perhaps
that’s what we mean
by silence. But that’s too facile.
If this is a joke it isn’t
going anywhere. Let me
pronounce your name,
and then we’ll see about
all the rest. Take a guess.
Mine you could fit
within the space of the breath
it takes to say. More or less.
You knew I was going there.
Which is not to say
you’re any less without a name,
or any more without.
It’s just that that’s the way
we go about these things.
What was your name again?

Everything we make is finite.
If, by hypothesis, we were
to disappear, the earth
would reclaim our efforts
as a matter of course.
It wouldn’t take long
for every structure to dissolve
leaving in its wake
the nude earth as it existed
in some theoretical distant past
before we arrived.
But that’s not what troubles me.
What troubles me is me
staying awake all night
thinking if I could just clear
my head I would fall asleep.
I don’t know why I am convinced
by this line of reasoning.
If you ask me in the morning
I might have an answer for you.

There’s just one more thing
I’ve been meaning to tell you.
Just a single unheld grasp of
unimaginable territories.
The cracks in the ceiling
reflect the space between the tiles
in the floor. A child can
point them out, and count them.
This hopscotch marriage will not do.
Just one more blind observation,
the last snowflake in the box.
All this speculation ties you to less.
I cannot unclothe you
for yourself. Every measure
delivers an unstated silence.
Just one more terrible pause
and the cradles will close.
Just take your hands from your face
and briefly say my voice.
The quiet needs signs.

I had an excuse
but then it became an accent.
It was all I could do
to look down to make
my eyes look closed.
Before, I used to be over
there. Now I am over here.
You might not get the difference,
but it is tremendous.
And my misgivings harbor
an irrational intention.
You see I’ve not quite gotten
over the fact that spring comes
once a year. Seems cruel,
in that respect. I’m not
the first to point this out.
But that makes me special, in a way.
That’s why I’m pacing back
and forth, not holding on
to any given position.

The curtains part without
a second thought. It is
in their nature to bring
the outside in. While we,
with our limited skulls,
strain through imperfect vision
to sort the inside out.
You know when you have
a thousand things to say
and you can’t decide on one
so you say them all.
It would be convenient
to know what I’m talking
about. There are only
so many windows to take
apart. Eyesight is slight
and somewhat opaque.
That is why it only takes
the tug of a string
to pull it open.