from “The King” by Ben Mazer
You might have been anyone. Your relatives, anyone. The place—where were we?—might have been any place. After dinner and talk that can only go so far we moved beyond the doorbell as if to be understood by going so far—no direction but to fall in the betweenness of hours up the zig zag streets when no one calls and everything repeats the insistent identityless rhythm that is our shield and passport—unhearable beats seeking the eternal and lost child. Unanswerable and hung up on a star like all the nights we died anonymous moving dead leaves like beads across the wind, retiring all our talk in the monstrous dark.











