The song is infinite, and so we keep listening.
Keep creaking at the hinges, clawing at the sky.
Is reminiscent, the way remembering telephone poles
made of wood, or telephones at all, seems insane.
Where the image may cease, dreams to them continue.
When a horse stands, sleeping, all else becomes gallop.
To remember the small, dark work of footsteps
behind us, because the night is long, and we are waiting.
And because waiting is long, we’ve concocted the sky.
Since dreaming has helped, we’ve allowed us dependence.
Quite often, these are mornings, and when followed,
entire offices to record them. You and I, we landmark.
There is no exact proximity to the requiem, or guidance.
Each of the tannery’s hides stand begging at your liner notes.
Because I have a family again
I emerge from a train and they
place a dead body into my hands.
I am barely able to sleep, so
sleep is all I crave. There is
a point, and I am forever near it.
Possibly a point of surrender,
possibly one of collapse.
It is difficult to receive what is
handed over, even harder to pass
that on. There’s no way to understand
what will be in your possession,
no matter how briefly. There’s no way
to know, or utilize, your own crude tools.
RUSSELL DILLON is co-editor of Big Bell and author of the chapbook, Secret Damage. He began life in New York, continued it in San Francisco, and now continues it further in New York. His first full-length collection, Eternal Patrol, was recently released from Forklift Books.