THE RED HEART
THE MAN WHOSE PATH WAS ON FIRE
James
Reaney
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THE AWAKENING
There was something precise
he had started, and now
continued. The way
was confused, the clues
obscure. The changeable faces
of beautiful women.
There was talk awhile
of honesty. There were doorways
without walls, bleeding light.
They were mirrors, welling from his face, & there was a distant,
very distant, sense of peace.
Shapes led him. Flesh fell from them.
They stood less revealed. The idea of a path
obsessed him. On it
the woman. She was unlovely, yet
he wished to fuck her, & thus he cared
that she precede him on the stairs.
It was cold. The sea
came in at them. The sky
was gray, the mountains,
invisible, personal, evil,
semi-real.
Numbers, faces, voices, houses,
fading. The memory & hope of peace,
the obvious order & its mystery, malevolence
of growing things, the wind
among them, the groping mind.
He was alone, He woke
from one dream to the next, changed faces.
The morning was another place.
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