Like a scene from Pound

where everyone in this

station is

an apparition, save for –

no –

I can’t say that, can I?

All the faces

are blurred now.

Yours,

mine,

the nameless passing

around

through

between

cradling it

all of it

and it’s all just

smoke,

blown away when the

Amtrac blurs past

on its way to Penn Station.

Ezra –

I’ve fought your words

since first I heard them –

two lines that,

before,

got only one response from me:

Bullshit.

Utter Bullshit.

After all, how could

anyone even presume to know

how to condense so much

life

into

fifty-seven letters

fourteen words

there’s too much

there’s just too much.

And somehow you packed it

into a blurb

smaller

than an address line.

It’s as if someone decided to write

about the ocean

and settled on

yellow fish.

Truth be told I

still

don’t understand why you

would.

But I get

that you can.

I see how the faces blur

like water on bark,

dropping from the grain before

you can

name them.

But they do have names,

Ezra.

They have voices.

Listen close,

and you might hear it, too.