Secret Society

By Wade Tarzia

So few of us seem to exist
that we wink out like fireflies,
radar reporting ghosts, suggestions
of objects here or not.

"Yes, I have read
Tristram Shandy..."
a voice insinuated, a dream inserted,
through a Devonshire fog.
In the essay piles they shine
like secret fairy signs drawn
on walls of mossy forest stones.

“Hey, I found Moby Dick and
read it in three days….
but don't tell anyone."
Reaching out hands
for the secret handshake,
I nod, speak a code word, then seek
sudden safety in the crowd,
my back seen escaping,
newspaper thrust ordinarily under arm,
as spy films teach.

Mad folk hear voices, so
I’m mad. In between
"When is it due... why so many...
I don’t have time... when’s the exam..."
I am tuning in to whispers of joy and fear --
"I am ready... I have read...
That author you mentioned who...
I could not stop...
I felt the character’s hunger,
and I had to eat..."

Beware.
They will find us if they know.
We will be
absorbed.

Make the secret sign and I will see.
Make brief eye contact,
wear grays and greens to fade out anywhere,
and know
in the in-betweens we’ll foster worlds,
in the vacuum of space we’ll breathe
the quantum froth,
and if anyone finds us there
they’ll be (you know).