109 It is night, hope hungers me. [Maya reads: “I witness this passing hour in nod to its sky, its valley, what treasure it keeps, what it passes along.” Her book without the cover, without the title page, no footers on its other pages to tell who wrote this book or what its title. She hasn’t read it in awhile, was reminded of it by Samantha, who wasn’t around awhile. [“Back to basics, Maya.”] I sit back in the wheelchair. The long-haired man smiles when I ask about death. Brightly cries while he claps: “Rocket, boom! A better world.” The tall bunny rabbit looks at me as though to ask if I am ready. I nod, & we push our wheelchair conveyance smoothly behind him as he hops forth, from the shore, the shallows, back deeper, where I’ve denied myself a few days, maybe necessary, maybe so—— What now, Maya? What now, Bowie? I look toward you with this query, wondering any way to give you something I don’t have, something I can’t know— What would that be? “They’re not there to free, they’re there for you to work with, respect, run with” “Like friends” “Like always” “This isn’t my best self tonight, these days. It’s some version of me, something. But not my best.” “Been worse.” “Now a new week come.” “Bring this in. Bring it all in. Breach the fucking daylight with your Art. Do it.” We roll in deeper together. vii. (cxiv.) Damned unsure yet keep moving—it seems I can’t hold or reck true much more than this—I want to—I want to—I so want to— Hardly any words but vow’s true by this hour’s acts— I want to call for faith, for more than these few words— yet, no,
The Cenacle | 77 | April 2011