The Language of Singularity

“How are you?”

I say, “I’m fine.”

Sometimes I say, “I’m learning the language of time,— you see.”

Some know, and look at me with a show of some quick sketch of eternity,

Because, it’s all about time.

I am ‘I’ these days,

A pronoun solipsism,

Given by grief—-you see.

Lost is ‘we’, consumed by singularity—-

Time on my hands: A narration,

A story of bones and ash,

Simple, clean and gone ,

Long buried in the garden,

Covered with flowers whose

 Spring will never come.

Done is time ahead, except in the short run—-

Time on my hands,

Time in my soul

Given to a droll, “I am fine.’

Minute by minutes past the way everyday ,

All pivoting on that one passing last breath,

Long gone by now in a sea of time.

Waves of anguish still wash upon its shore

Memoirs in  foamy fragments

And bits of this and that in the frothy debris of haunting memory.

The door opens on an empty house,

filled with  the perfectly simple, gone reverential.

Ghosts speak the language of singularity,

Wander in a lost world,

Sometimes howling,

Sometimes sobbing,

Often speaking the ancient tongue of bird song

In hoarse tweets and tiny bleats of sorrow.

The House is empty except for me, —– you see,

To the casual passer-by its not haunted—-except for me.

Every tomorrow plays  as if, as if—alive.

 Some recognize the singular  me,

Really see and know I am not a ghost,

But now speak in the language of singularity.

The very old and most women know the look

For they too speak the language of time —-you see..