Say you see the same
face each time
you travel the park
that runs the length
of old rail line, same
face on each new body
flickering at you out
of the reclaimed green.
And say the theremin
screams under the
implication of your hand,
turns with you like a mood
ring, stokes a thought
about the origins of language
that repeats. Say you knew
this would happen and still
you touched frequencies,
as though this was any
path to knowledge.
What if you kept pace,
gave up your own vision
to the repeating features
in the day. What if it doesn’t
feel like sacrifice. And whatever
moves in the air by mere
nearness turns particular,
as in made of particles,
able to be parted, needing
to be if you want to get
through it. Say it’s so
loud you can’t
think past. You don’t
see a way through
to new anything.
Your face comes
home with you.