For his sake drifting away from the true <br />windlessness, torn sails the aftermath <br />of him: white canvas suffering too vaguely <br />from the beautiful agreeing with these arguments, <br />but far away: sought him, found him <br /> <br />not, distant from image, archetype, the typical <br />sublime’s encroachments, archaeology <br />of his innocence which is to be destroyed. Shaped, <br />shaping, shapes, and shape, the neverwhere <br />intact, the unearth disinterred. Hermes mi amor, <br /> <br />mi partida, mi pobreza: him my dark <br />of the moon, my mare nubium, oceanus <br />procellarum, whatever’s not shown there, a man <br />who wants to make him shadowless. I windward <br />into disbelief unmoored, drowned <br /> <br />splendors of my own speech. Then beauty with his hooks <br />and pulleys, block and tackle has his way. Him <br />just across the boundary of the sayable, tradutore, <br />traditore, willingly acceding to any formulation <br />on the other side of words, spoken, spoken of, <br /> <br />but never said: him always <br />the him, object of the hymns I wrote, subject <br />to song, so he can’t recognize himself, come down <br />to rescue his or mine, danger invites him, a popular <br />tune (taste of betrayal <br /> <br />on the humming tongue, the hearing ear, <br />but wrongly): my occupation or claim <br />on Argus-eyed blind night, trill, partial, whistling <br />untuned: this stubborn wind, his <br />mandolin. He knows I’d love.<br /><br />Reginald Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/michael-who-walks-by-night/
