Edited By Nick Piombino - Goodreads

#25
I dislike having to write these sentences.
Any project, conceived of as a kind of campaign
(political, military or otherwise), with its attendant
arm-twisting and compulsive positioning, makes one unfree
and to that exact un-monosyllabic degree, unhappy.
Instead, of the small band of cloaked travelers
just one stepped forward and offered, “I dislike the having
of having to write these sentences.” The keeper
of the gatehouse then took this password and the narrow
slot in the timbered door slid shut. The group waited.
Instead, today, I could take a walk or get on the subway.
I could misplace myself or make myself unsafe
for enrichment, for birthday lists and little magazines,
for preschool subcommittee meetings on accountability,
for the heavy ancient golden worm that he wore
on his middle finger. The great flattened ball of the sun
touched the western hills. He, when he saw them,
turned out of the road and made toward that boggy bottom
where finally it was midnight. All the talking at me
voices erased, swallowed up. When I sit down
with this uncovered silence I feel the unjust joy
in having been taken on to re-write a blank page and wonder
how come when you disobey them they say
you’re not listening, when in fact you’ve heard them
loud and clear. A shawl of blue pale gauze
sprinkled with little diamonds and edged with a fringe
of rose pink silk. The stringed instruments begin
now, preluding in parts.
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