John Sibley Williams

Gregor Samsa
 
And when metaphor exhausts of signifying the tangible?
Of transposing enigma upon dove, cloud,
hands and their wringing or their steeples?
Instead demanding through impotence
it denote nothing?
 
Bliss.  Apocalypse.  No, we’re merely crying over cobblestone
and walking nowhere, cradling fire and flowers.
No longer fire and flowers but a bored,
half-lit cigarette and a series of blossoms
that have readopted impermanence.  Naked. 
Objects alone.
 
And our fathers are suddenly not gods
and mother’s milk dried three decades ago,
leaving only her arms.
And we’re left suckling tirelessly at the sun
but burn our lips without tasting.
And dreams distance themselves
from the lovers dreaming them,
who are interpreting their days apart
as a sweater’s threads,
but left without language for each other
find nothing worth unraveling.
And that kiss sizzles off my cheek,
is cold as words seeking purpose,
and we upon waking remain ourselves
and the roaches, unglorified, are roaches
scurrying unseen beneath our bare feet.

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