Summer 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1992 |

Underground

We meet inside the night. You show me how a red and mauve Javanese mask tattoo is kited from an articulate vine straggling your shoulder. We are just below the line of visibility; a wall divides us from the others. There's a bar gives on to the river, and green neon chimes on the black. We're waiting for a call which is directional. I seem to hear myself listening in silence since childhood for a nocturnal voice, a lost ship's horn. A silver deaths-head hangs from your left ear. And living out of line's intentional; it's easier to build purpose that way, meet up with a fraternity. The light that hits my words is unconditional, it shares with us a means to make it clear that there is power in minorities, a strength in standing out, picking up pace by being less cluttered. We're very near a death to the old orders. What is that?—a stone lion rinsed clean by white lightning, or someone so solitary they're made new? We're startled by the snake-thrust of a cat t

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