Stages of Assembly

Published in Westerly Magazine March 1984

He wrestles with the names of things

that have no shape. His hands

burrow in the ruins of his hair,

his feet are bound to a patch of sky.

If he cries out

the waters encroach upon his room,

lovers are separated with axes

and the newly born birds

can be heard inside the hills.

If he departs, afraid,

upon the shoulders of a woman

he might learn to love

it is without words

and his eyes will never close.

He knows that if he sleeps

he will awaken old.

Streets curl beneath his window.

Visitors will arrive before dark

and arguments will be repeated

in other rooms.

He feels the negligence of doors

of formulas, of old phrases;

greetings never used

predictions of rain.

He clears the table of papers

and of tools.

He reads the directions once more

and waits for the sound of laughter

on the stairs.

poem by Jeremy Tager