This Page

by Steve King

© 2011

All rights reserved

i.

The blank page,

an unblinking annoyance

that will not turn away.

I cannot see beyond it,

though its glare does skewer me.

I inspect it, careful, and at length;

all its imperfection,

specks and whorls,

perhaps some remnants

of reprocessed rag,

or atomized remains

of old cardboard

and sixpack wraps.

That part there perhaps,

spun up from a soup

of crass handbills,

unanswered letters,

desperate replies,

holiday scribblings

and tart ‘good-byes,’

all well-seasoned with a spray

of bright confetti gaud.

A busy page, though blank.

Its breadth supports a second life

for all these transient things;

makes immortal life’s discards,

though not a strophe of mine.

Mottled and well used,

corners bent, creased and worn,

hammered near to death

by idle drumming fingers,

it’s figure is the very shade

of an exhausted muse.

ii.

It will outstay distraction,

this place where worlds do manifest

and legacies transport;

where far-seeing souls,

gone from time and place,

long the source of your close reveries,

strive for their communion;

as if they might impart some certain grace;

as if you might accept it

for your version of a sacrament.

Through darkening afternoon it stays,

a-dance before the eye,

upholding all the shapes

imagination might require;

a cloud, alit to render

hard won heavenly intent,

there to yield new spirits

in trade for your old dreams

and all the weary summonings.

All the old secrets,

all already known;

ancient stories leavened with new breath;

imagery ageless

as the breaching sun

or descending night

or red moon parting bitter seas

or narrow eyes upon new-risen heights,

opening to peer through an advancing mist…

iii.

No, nothing of this page is new,

save, at last, that part suddenly you.