Noose and Hook

The Occupation

14 The Occupation I used to love reading the great poets and the words that hovered like bees at the lines’ cut edges scythed by their commas. But tonight, beyond my locked door, the ground takes charge of caving in. Somewhere, the windows in kitchens smolder and soldier onward toward a glass of gin. I long for its coffin, the heat of its sleep. Dear Sleep, help me sheet the furniture in the rooms of the brain. I will not look underneath at the black ache of the table or wake the furnishings into breathing. I will cut open the vein that feeds the beat of the pendulum. I once read the great poets until my heart was blown open. Now, whenever I stoop over the hard desk of my heart—the soldiers come. Troy is burned. emmanuel noose i-62.indd 14 1/4/10 4:31 PM ...