Recognizing the Fragile Before it Needs Fixing by William Crawford

he never really lost that look

of a kid caught in the Christmas lights

 

only back then

the null experience

the hook and ladder void

was unknown

 

the light had a different slant

bending without strain

to find him

laughing at his own thoughts

 

those days language wasn’t

used as a weapon or defense mechanism–

a brackish moat surrounding lonely castle

filled with snapping turtles

slow surface of broken mirror and smoke

 

no– the words were Swiss allies

with chocolate watches

and tiny knives to cut cheese

he loved them

the peace they’d bring

 

sustaining him

like a good woman

that reminded him of mother

 

only now those lights

seemed empty between blinks

 

what was there to remember

beyond the words?

 

the open fields

with actual air secreted

inside green pockets

leaving only the heavy empty

to be breathed

 

the blackout valleys

and low bald hills

of the English tongue

 

those words

a weakness

a clumsy surgeon

whose work disfigured

the feeling

 

what could they possibly say

about this ripped dago red rhapsody

tangled up in the depth of his gut?

 

the blunt instruments

striking so many bells

in the guarded towers

of his endlessly tolling

restlessly toiling mind

 

give the tongue to the cat

let her try to explain it

she’s smart enough to know better

 

he needed a new language

one without mask or trap

 

a sustenance that offered

enlightenment over obfuscation

 

he could hear it

he could feel it

changing inside

 

forming an honest buffer

more light than shield

 

no rise or fall

just quiet plateau

 

his exact thought:

how sweet silence sounds

no wonder it’s a song.