from You, part XII
for Pat Silliman
A guide to the sky under full nondisclosure.
Dawn in the bare birch trees, the sun, swollen, throbs over the horizon. Hotel
buffet doodah. Two dogs dancing, sniffing one another’s genitalia.
One can hear the electricity wired in the walls, water rushing through the
pipes, the boards and joints of the old house groaning as they settle.
Map of morning. Winter light. One’s experience of the transfer point air-
port as that of the city itself. Dear winter, it’s 5:15 AM. Shoes for Mickey
Waste deep in the big muddy. The sound of rain around. The line (not visible)
binds letters into words. People are drowning.
Moon, broken in the middle. What a watch watches. Song of the single en-
gine Cessna, threading the pre-dawn sky. One bird, one bird, many.
Blades of grass brittle in the freeze. Spider’s corner of the bath room. One
maple tree that will not return to life.
Ron Silliman, “You” (XII) from The Alphabet. Copyright © 2008 by Ron Silliman. Reprinted by permission of University of Alabama Press.
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Poet Ron Silliman b. 1946
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