ボケット: Boketto
(letters to a wife, found in a box)
"He knew nothing to do but inhabit the paradoxes."--William McIlvanney
Letter 3
Dear Tenderness,
木心
To you, even in winter, full-bellied,
I wobble and space my hope toward home.
To rhyme the darkness with ringing:
bead against wrist, tooth against tongue
and the boom of your heart click, swaying.
Words, like small billows under hull, tiller the jib of my meandering thoughts. Pictures, like wisps of exhalation, rudder the carriage of my body’s hinting. I have always worked both, rhyme and flap, to set my life’s navigation right—Ballast of Boom and Keel—the steerage from which I have tried to helm my way home. A halyard in its pulling.
How does one see through the clouded time of unseeing, especially when they themselves tell stories with pictures while all along they have struggled with the nature of how to see. So, it is me. I am blind
Bone and feather-less wing, knobby beak and elongated rib of our throat: all that is left of our singing when the song has gone wrong, all that is left when the singing has gone rung.
moonlight on the water, like the hair of a lovers’ slumbering length across my chest in the cool and rounded belly of the night....
pieta and the thinness of our wire souls
keep lighting tunnels
I am smalling, hold me.
Love,
Hubbie
