The Medium

it is essentially reluctance  the language a darkness, a friendship, tying to the real but it is unreal the clarity desired, a wish for true sight, all tangling ‘you’ tried me, the everyday which caught me, turning the house in the wind, a lovecraft  the political was not my business  I could not look without seeing the decay, the shit poured on most things, by indifference, the personal power which is simply that,     demanding a friend take dullness out of the world  (he doesn’t know his lousy emptiness)                      I slept in a fire    on my book bag, one dried wing of a white moth     the story is of a man who lost his way in the holy wood because the way had never been taken without at least two friends,  one on each side, and I believe my dream said one of the others always led     now left to acknowledge, he can’t breathe, the darkness bled the white wing,     one     of the body of the moth that moved him, of the other wing,     the language is bereft