By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 12/3/07

“Let go,” says the voice, as if to comfort,
But how strange it is that our sleep has been
Truncated by the destruction of the possessive
Me and mine, and we awaken
With a multitude of selves choiring through
The body and even extending far into the skies,
Which have become layerings of turgid pastels —
Smudged coppers, pallid reds, depressed blues,
The conglomerations of a fast-moving storm
Whose swift subtleties intensify the night.
The breath moves outside the body, shaking the whole
House with profound rumblings, as the choir
Tunes itself to the tumblings of the wind.
Certainly, we long for the centering relief
Of a single sleep, but it is too late for that.
The fathers are restless and the corridors of the house
Bulge with ancient violations of the not me
And me, suffering enumerable territory
Disputes, each one of whose terrible wars
End in shuddering reconciliations.
Snippets of foreign tongues collide in the dark,
Each one pleading: “I do not understand.
Forgive me.” These words drag tears from
The decrepit warriors that fall on the roof
As rain. So an ocean mates with an ocean,
As personal rage is subsumed by impersonal grief.
And a surging, which takes possession of the storm,
Swallows all bullets, all bombs, and sings,
At last, in many whisperings,
Of fresh beginnings and of final peace.

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