The Futility of Epistolary Capnomancy

being B, my response to a certain A.


A:
i've always seen you as the city at night.

you are a revolution in a
moment--of headlight skies
and fervent fever passion.

i am variable as the
lights to shine
a steady way,
but i do stay.

too much that is here is
bygone, and i will always
be the cloud below yours.

i veil the impetus of
a spark to burn the
international city
down with memory.

i cannot be your echoing
cavern cohort, though
i will always ricochet.







B:

dear sir or madam--
you mistake smoke for a cloud.

streetlights reflecting
burning tenements and
bus stations

or
if you'd rather
wills o' thy wisp
or wisps of the will,
phantom highwaymen
leading intent to disarray.

i burn constant
but will not stay.

i am
(to mirror)
too much with the world---
always already gone
and always peripheral to gaze.

you have already burned nations, and
a veil, such ephemeral fabric,
takes readily to flame
leaving an unscarred subject
with a blaze reflected in her
quickly averted eyes.

you will not
but can not
be the cavern

you were filled in
long ago

i am already lost
in echoes and reflections,
hoping only that the voice
returning from the void
would cease to be my own.

D Composition

I am composed of transparent lines,
striving toward opacity--
a ghostly blank scale
with bloody clef in your image.

I am rusted guitar strings
stretched, tuneless, over
warped wood.
When pulled and plucked
by your graceless fingers
as you attempt to bring me
into tune--
Leave off! Let me gather dust!
--the tension breaks
and these rusty strings slice
your fingertips
or pierce
your shortsighted eye.

Short Draft, Hwy 129

There are birds screaming
in my head.
The colour of their voice is peacocks.
Whether I understood them then
but not now
or now
but not then
is immaterial.
They have always screamed
non-sense
and the colour of their voice is peacocks.