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Song: Vox

ISSUE:  Autumn 1982

Down the misted road
Cliffs and midnight come
Coiled above the sea.
Its twin fans of light wedged
White against the road,
Defiled in dark curves,

Dropping into low,
The long two-seated car,
Shut against the cold
Crest of high night,
Hovers on itself
And slips into the fog.

Bare arm across his black
Dinner jacket’s sleeve,
Lips moving without sound,
She wrenches at the wheel,
Certain where they are
The road has turned to air,

Its skin sucked inside out
Through the belly of a dream,
The gaze’s figure eight
Lamella and lure where
He halves himself in her
Eye’s mothering light.

This pearl reverberates,
Decays, bright-scaled, deciduous
Lozenge of the song’s steep fall,
Blind, hidden, or invisible
Echo of the eye upon
A pale recessive ground.

How could this be seen,
Involved in that white mist,
The closed car falling toward
Ocean’s adsorptive screen, mute
Surface where we must
Be lost to see through words?

Bodies made of light,
Bodies made of sound,
Fade at the faint point
Of white desire like these
Two caught and swept
To sea and never found.


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