(dedicated to Paul Clark)
That you can read these words in black and white
upon a page in a store somewhere
considering whether to buy, or not.
That you cannot see, beneath each word
the gestures, glance or longing look
no tears nor bloodstains lying there.
Or perhaps you are in a library
if so, shsssssh.
Or on a subway listening to the squealing brakes
and checking for the map to find your stop.
No matter where you are
you could with a razor blade
scrape these words from paper
or from plastic or from card
so that none remain
and lose forever what was here to read
like rain upon a dried off window pane.
Like your next breath
lost like a stadium seen from a plane
or in an old news reel’s crowd scenes
when every single person now is long since gone
and all but the most famous impossible to identify
but they had their lives too
and read words and letters
just like you.
You will turn upon your heels
make a decision
get on with your day
purchase the things you came to buy
and rank-ordered in your need
find your stop, your destination reached,
or finish the assignment this was distraction from
or had the interview you are on your way to.
None of us knows which line will be our last to read
few die in bookstores looking at books
or in libraries, or on subway cars or trains,
so you are safe.
But sooner or later, one day, no one makes it home
So, read carefully these words
whether in Lourdes, Johannesburg or Toronto
feel, perhaps, the rain upon your upturned face,
in Edinburgh on a darkened windy afternoon;
or read it in the leafy green of a park bench
somewhere in France
on holiday or between employments
journeying for adventure and the heart’s own rest
or in the high waves of a redundant business card
(some choices are not our own)
or some mission to a distant hill town in the Nilgris
or some beach strand in California or Indonesia
or you are a summer student by an oil rig
a jilted lover or one doing it;
perhaps a new mother with a day or two to kill
before returning home
to where the other kids
await their newborn brother or sister.
One thing is certain:
words like these
you can touch with your finger
join our silent conspiracy
of knowing them.
Now, here, run your unique print
over this as with a scanner
as we share identities
you and me
though I’ve never known you
not like this
not in this intimacy
nor so anonymous
not even amorous
you sharing my thoughts
even as I write them here
on a misty summer morning
most likely far away
from where you are.
I’d love to know you
learn your story
tragic, uneventful
full, or lonely,
sweet or bitter gory.
Don’t worry
all of us share words
(you might even, mirabile dictu, read this in translation)
as Julian knew
all shall be well
so there
we just don’t know how or when
or if words will
show us what or
exactly where.
Iain T. Benson
Loudas
St. Pé de Bigorre
France
August 1 and 2, 2010
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