Canto CXXXI

Each night, I speak a few improvised words
into the Bellyphone—I do not know
how well they travel, if they can be heard

within the swishing amniotic stew.
You’re not the one that lives in Plato’s Cave,
the world outside is where you’ll find shadows

that masquerade as things unto themselves.
The warmth of a body that’s not your own;
the low, sonorous music of the breath

beneath the shallow clatter of diction;
the warm and fleshy veil that serves to shield
you from the obscene glare of the full sun—

these are the only truths you’ll ever need.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jan 11, 2012 @ 00:42:25

    There is so much here to think about that is difficult to know where to start.
    I don’t think I’ll be reading Plato’s “Republic” any time soon.
    I liked…
    the world outside is where you’ll find shadows
    that masquerade as things unto themselves.
    If you talk to her like this before she is born, what will you be telling her when she’s cradled in your arms.

    Reply

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