b e a r s k i l l i n g h u n t e r s
D O N A L D I L L I C H
Nothing I say has any weight,
one of those particles theyíve invented,
something that has to be there
for life to work, but hasnít been seen yet.
My girlfriends werenít scientists
so they couldnít hook up high powered
microscopes to scan my mouth
for signs of sense and intelligibility.
I did try to sign them up for classes,
six hours credit for breaking apart
my sentences, finding a structure
for a void, love inside the wind.
They slept late each school day, asked
me to bring them the notes. Fed up,
I threw away their books, diagrams
of my vocal chords, the echo chambers
in my throat they never looked at once.
Although I page through scientific
personals, not one of them is interested
in my field of study. Maybe Iím a dead
science, the astrology of the 21st century.
I speak in constellations, bears killing
hunters, a virgin lifting a dipper to her
mouth, afraid the first drink might be
poison. Lift your head to the sky:
see, now Iím invisible.