Monday, July 11, 2011

I wrote these in that unsleep state, napping on a couch, in between dreams, Amherst, MA, 7-8-11.

I am a tiny bird
Plummeting stone with wings of leaf
Pounding furiously in my fall
To be cast up
With the weightlessness of disaster
and the fruitlessness of misery.


I had a dream, black rails
My head leaning on night
I felt movement, looked down
And you were against me
Staring up
Blue eyes breathing
and the stars spun.


She was tiny,
as big around as a roll of dimes.
Her eyes flashed and her hair was ink
We talked books as she packed a pipe
Talked poetry wet on the porch
I stood in the yard staring at my feet
and we told each other secrets
of all those dark nights
and we became friends.


We found a rhythm
tongues tracing
fingertips floating:
it was a feather in a smokestack
and you hated it,
it was an iron ivory egg
and you smashed it,
twisted pegs and clipped strings
fell to fitful sleep upon your own bed of silence.
I'm tuned, cable strung to the wall
and I rock myself to sleep
waiting for the drums
for the rhythm, for the harmony
dying in a minor key.

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