You wake to the incandescence of cats,
you wake to the unwound rain,
all the dreams you saved lost
in the torrent of the times.
You move amid the song of bones,
structured by their secrets,
a hidden tower of ache and years.
The magic you cast with empty pockets,
the spell unspun from the threads
that dangle and tease fingers.
The clues to creation to worry and to pluck.
Set your face in the mirror,
hide your breath and your scent.
You center your eyes at the end of your story,
the one that is so clean and pleasing.
The empty building, the haunted orchard;
the buried stairs, the graveyard of stars.
Everything settled in the labyrinth of sleep.
A warm shower, the the cold rain.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
the thread
It’s like any other qualifier, it depends on where the context comes in. Sunny to sunnier, gray to deeper gray. That’s why each sentence t...
-
The sky above is blue and blurry with floaters and figments, the cheap cheaters smudged with the devil’s work, the new moon monstrous in its...
-
It’s a blindness that exceeds the eyes, a blank spot that only widens with time. The words go one way, the actions another, the mind makes u...
-
It’s the comfort of wasps in the wind chimes, it’s the comfort of children screaming in the street. It’s wedding bells and bacchanals and wo...
No comments:
Post a Comment