in my dreams are these memories
of tall boys playing me philip glass
and promising a lifetime of sweet things,
like dew drops on 4 o clock flowers
and weaving the thread between you and
i until the shadows stop swaying from left
to right and into oblivion.
you are trying to be beautiful boy but
what is in it?
i am built of the sun rain and grass, but
when you speak i am built of the bundle of
stress you’ve used to lace yourself together.
tell me that i’m doing it right, in between
these quiet rains and long trains. tell me
its only a whisper.
tell me there is sweetness in the world
outside. i have in my memory only air
and joy, only light and love.
and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.
such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured
not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.
this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,
dye me now
and count my bones.
we can be everything the moment
says we should be
i can bring back yesterday
in a breath of august wind,
i leave with my dreams
and now, rebuild myself with them.
like tightening the screw on
millions of old joints.
i am only loosed laced together.
every cigarette tastes old now,
and even the trees are sighing now.
light and space in the head rush
and i only rush
to feel earth again.
even the moon is tired now.
even the fall will fall now. for,
i reside only in my dreams
fingers and calloused eyes.
dawn broke cold this morning.
i thought of you the way i always wanted
to think of you: as docile as my dreams
told me to be. then the morning fog shaded
the rolling hills out from the greens and
browns of late winter to the white blues
gulls danced along the pale orange
plane between the tree line and
wrapped up the easter sky.
i used to be thankful you are now
a whole world away, but these
mornings have taught me otherwise.
gratitude is for the ego.
in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
birds sing less and boys wear more. boys that wear the
checked patterns in dyed wool. clouds that look like
wallpaper ash swing through like lines of logging saws.
say that something else comes. magpies are drawn
to such omens, as the only sentinels left, to dine on them
and be ready for that something else which comes.
that something else, that quick at the end of a whip
that something else, the white draw from your mouth
suspended in the light.
store up and live.
hold close and be warm.
whisper goodbye to a present sun, wait through the night
with belly deep breath,
one long way under one constant muffle.
the draw back in will be sharp, and will taste like the
gasp at snow for the very first time, and frozen air
shocked your rose pink lungs, new to the world but now,
again, the world can be new.