It wasn't anything

It wasn’t anything
that could be spoken
or pointed to.

It hung in the air.

a vague impression of a scent
with no
source,

a feeling
with no
name.

What can be defined by the space

it doesn’t fill? One cannot assert the existence of such a thing.

but
there it was.

Perhaps it could be drawn
on black paper
in silver ink,
and the act
of drawing it
(the shape, whatever it please
the illustrator)
would be the thing itself.

Let the drawing be the interpretation made
by the grasping senses.

I’ll trace the line with a fingertip,
try
to feel the tautness,
to locate the endpoints,
to collect a few silver dustings to print
on my forehead.

I would be a devotee
of the office supply closet,
transported by the scent
of rubber cement,
saying and counting my prayers
by a paper clip chain,
solemnly exchanging
incoming for outgoing mail.
Find comfort in numerable,
tangible odds and ends,
useful and always ready,
so very organized,
unlike these elastic impressions
of you
that
stretch
out
to encompass
so many interpretations,
and then
snap
back
to admonish my folly.


written 6.2.97
revised 2.28.07

© 2007 ElenaMarie