He Was a Visitor

Ron Silliman

RONALD SILLIMAN

               RONALD SILLIMAN

               HE WAS A VISITOR

Cast flesh
as the song into the room is cast
wholly:
      no man wanders life untouched:
                if I lie it is the sadness in me that is refusal:
if it is the city life, no matter,
there are walkways, paths between gardens and into gardens,
 there is even the center in the night
built upon silence:
              the violins I never understand or the flutings,
such narrowness of caution,
pitch:
     books are real, they can drown:
                  how in the harbor the moon is enough,
how the street is plenty:
these fine walls we give to the buildings, the windows built
 therein.