After Silence

Poem By John Perreault

After science,
we have
perfumes of
various sorts.
And then the
month,
I don't know
why,

Nor do I know
the colors,
without
warning,

            without
warts,
of the
expanding.

It is as if I
am invisible;
it is as if I
am dead.
The air passes
through me,
moving through
my head,
        as
I stroll down
halls.

Look at my
hands:
they are
animal hands
and yet they
are glass.
And my bare
feet
are attached
to my legs.

My brain is in
codes.

You are triple,
You
are glass.

What
you buy
is
who you are.

And
yet
        the
allegory
continues.

Even
without credit.
Even
without cash.

There
is no air.
There
is no death.
There
is no sex.
There
is no class.

As to that,
find what
could be only
not
what was dream
in this wide
world
outside the
scheme

and then some
handsome
partners in
crime
will pass the
time
from hand to
hand.

A tall and
handy
and then some
favoring weeks
might be my
by and by
between the
cheeks.

Blessed are the
damned
by cruel
society.
Society is
species.

You, you could
count the
years
and count the
hills.
You could count
the armpits.

Blessed are the
mothers
who eat their
children
and the fathers
who, in a time
of reward,
will have no
sons.


It was better
if not cleaner
on the beach-
early morning,
when you were
the only dog.
the only car.


And you,
    you
thought you
were glass.

Blessed are the
children
who have no
language:
language is
government.

Either I am big
or I am huge.
I have no love
or glory;
I have no fear

-until all
three
descend on me
and once again
I reappear.

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