Spell

The marks were of precision.
They ran from stage left to right.
No one remembered 

the shortness of just hands,
the way they carried water,
the touch of the not visible life
sustained in the same way
we awoke each day and
prayed the sun up.

The televised life is a sleight.
Sparks of electricity, furious voices,
images formed from small fires.
Long lost immediacy and repetition.
Messages carried by a messenger
bringing the final message.
The thing to be extinguished.

"I hear voices," my young son said.
The subvocal is shirtless,
squinting, smoking a cigarette.
Now he wears a raincoat,
now a soft blanket over his shoulder.
Finally a dark hat pulled low.
"Don't believe everything you hear,"

He says. 

The u-turns are flocking.
Through a doorway a long look
grows, breaks the surface,
breathes, then branches down
into the source.

The look is taken in hand.