It didn’t matter that hail, the size of baseballs, fell downwards towards our home,
crashing into the windows, shattering them, leaving melting giant hail-shaped circles
on the floor for Cynthia, our eldest, to mop with a dry rag. It didn’t matter that language
could be a spotlight or a headlight, shining the super hero logo into the purple-dark sky,
illuminating miniature white flakes as they pirouetted humorously before our car.
Language was something you could step on, like an ant or a minefield, shove into a chair
and ask questions to, or walk arm-in-arm together into the embrace of soughing trees.
It didn’t matter that your reservoir of faith would stay wet until you died,
and when it dried and you were dying, you would itch in the place it had left,
nervously or violently, and you, wondering how your faith had oozed out,
closed your eyes and let death completely master you, a new faith sort of,
to wade into like a pool. Language could master you like Chopin’s skull,
playing its major and minor keys down the alley of your spine, insinuating itself
into the veins of your thinking, circumnavigating the kid-gloves of your silly desires.
It didn’t matter that everything we cared about would be updated over time;
we could shed everything except ourselves, and walk onto some puzzled plain
with the tearful knowledge that time, like a fire drill, had filled and evacuated
various corridors in our selves, leaving us in interesting ruins,
vast immemorial Coliseums, and the gnats that circled above.