The ghosts had left us. The trash & insulation strewn across the floor
were the cave paintings of addicts so lonely & dead
their only art became to trace the fate of all cities, as they gradually become grand,
empty & unknown. It seemed I had no choice
but to wait until the room reached outside of itself to pull in the dark,
like a sailor pulls a net from the sea,
the edge of the boat a tangible threshold, while the other threshold, the horizon
becomes one with the sky, a wall the ghosts peer through
like a child holding one eye to the bullet-hole
in the elevator door – black ripples in a wall of steel.
Long tired of cackled laughter, I now know why they close the eyes of the dead,
& why unknowingly, in some secret ritual, my mother kissed each eye
before I left – our boy, our beautiful baby boy.
There is a point when no guardian can explain the world & language reaches its end,
though nothing ends, & the child rides beyond the pitched horizon,
like a ship in the theory of an infinite fall.