What Rough Beast | Poem for May 27, 2017

Michael Tyrell
Wormhole

So far it’s like any reality,
scanty foreshadowing,
infestations of coincidence.
The Magi appear on sidewalk murals,
seldom in the flesh, on sidewalk.
Waiting not the story the map tells.
If the bus is symbolic
it is not clear where we are in the plot,
whether the action is rising
or we’ve swerved into a subplot.
I don’t see any face I can’t fathom
not meeting in some waiting room or other.
There’s a lottery here like anywhere,
we must scratch and scratch
to make our nails metallic-black.
And rules about doubles abound
should we encounter them; there are
ropes to know. Who knows, we might
turn out to be the ghosts in this story,
though the budget won’t accommodate
sci-fi monsters to wolf the city down.
Ordinary light, through dirty windows,
touches the faces of the riders facing West.
Only one glances up, baffled and attentive,
like one reading Plato for the first time—
nothing not shadow,
and she can’t stomach another illusion.

Michael Tyrell is the author of Phantom Laundry (Backlash Press, 2017) and The Wanted (National Poetry Review Press, 2012). With Julia Spicher Kasdorf, he edited the anthology Broken Land: Poems of Brooklyn (NYU Press, 2007). His work has appeared in Agni, Barrow Street, Fogged Clarity, Gulf Coast, The Iowa Review, Margie, The New England Review, The New Republic, The New York Times, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, Verse Daily, and The Yale Review, as well as in a number of anthologies.

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