The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Micah Stack
Not much transfers from our previous lives;
recollection doesn’t survive metempsychosis.
Élan vital, very well. But in whose world?
All I can access now is a faint reverb.
There is a file somewhere, though,
with sounds irretrievable in the present
tense, the tones we miss the first time around.
If I could hack into infinity,
make incisions in space. I would
learn to trust the axioms of the sea,
the hypertrophied sound of green.
The sky: a pink and blue photo,
blurred by excess motion. An amateur's
error, a small miracle. It leaves
a roseate stain on the cat, the chaise
longue, the weeds between the bricks.
When I break the code, I know how
the library will look: a row of gleaming
cabinets made of ether, filed in harmonic
order, anxious to flood me with all the
impromptu concerts I never heard.
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