Photo by John Vetterli

The mute boy

as slender as a willow sapling

looks at the world

with eyes big and bright by

light intake and color.

 

He does not look at the

world as others look.  He looks

in his own way

 

His world is a

world of maenad laughter.  His world

is a world of confusion; a

world he can touch. His is a world

to be known by taste.

 

Sometimes something rises up

from somewhere inside and

becomes a sudden urge

wordlessly, unthinkingly from the

threat of adolescence, to run

into the world of surfaces,

crossings and confusion.

 

The mute boy

has no place to run to.

The mute boy

has nowhere to go.

 

Sometimes something rises up

from somewhere inside, wordless

throbbing, total

and becomes suffering.

 

He sits on the stone walkway

of the grandfather garden, his

head between his knees.

 

The mute boy’s tears

fall like rain

watering the soft roses

of his fair cheeks.

 

David Spaenberg is a poet


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