Question of a Dream

In the morning,

Just about six or so,

There Is a light in the sky.

Never a sun to give it,

But it’s there.

And it always finds its way,

Somehow,

Past the curtains I drew tight

The night before.

While I lay there,

Half asleep,

This anomaly breaks in.

Here, I can feel you.

Beneath the blankets and behind me,

I can feel your depression,

Sinking in the sheets of the bed.

I can feel our fingers,

Playing with the shadows on my back.

I can feel your nails,

Tracing along my skin.

Vainly, I hold the smile you put there.

So I turn,

To whisper good mornings,

And whatever else,

To your pale eyes.

But you’re not there.

So I find myself on my back,

Staring at the ceiling.

And, if I close my eyes,

I can still feel you.

I can feel your ear,

Pressed against my chest,

Chasing for my heart beat.

I can feel your lips,

Idly brushing against my neck.

But just almost.

So I lay there,

Watching ripples of some light commodity

Break upon the ceiling’s surface.

*written in 2008

The back-alley angel,

who listens to prayers

echoed off cracked garbage cans

and chipped bricks,

I watch you drift lazily,

like the snow in my eyes,

I pull my coat closer,

cutting off the plague of cold and quiet

you're awake when you want to breathe,

but you're growing sick of sunlight.

i can see it in the way you spit,

bloodied and battered.

someone lied to you long ago.

someone made the mistake

of setting you free.

When it Rains, It Pours; When It Burns, It's Acid

The heat was sterilizing

and we were shouting lyrics

from one song or another

when we saw it;

a dead rabbit lying on the road’s shoulder

We stopped for a minute in mourning

and acknowledged the sadness of the moment.

Another rabbit, standing proudly,

had perched itself not four feet away.

Comically, I pointed and yelled:

You did it, didn’t you?

Almost as if he was in on the joke,

he looked at me for a moment

and bolted off into the darkness,

fading into the night

like our laughter into the humid air.

Not thirty minutes later did the night go sour,

staining the tip of my tongue

and leaving me wishing I had means for correction.

And as I walked home,

stepping lightly in between beads of rain,

rain that hadn’t shown itself for weeks,

I thought of the rabbit.

Lying quietly, whole, intact,

and yet still swallowed by death.

And I wondered who would mourn him

when the sun shown tomorrow.

Hemingway

i watched her sail across my eyes,

like a ghost in a hollow room.

the echoes of her feet touching nothing,

firing off in my ears,

like the incessant prattling of someone

who cared too much or too little.

see i’ve learned the difference

between walking in the snow

and walking in the rain.

i’ve learned a lot of things.

and i’m listening for the familiar buzz.

the one that tells me i’m allowed to lie to myself.

or at least,

for just a little bit longer

words are clean.

like knives and bullets and teeth.

or any instrument you meant to say,

for that matter.

words are clean.

and i’ve grown restless and listless

with the clapboard walls.

she still sails across my eyes.

but now little of it is left to do with anything.

tomorrow she’ll sail again.

and tomorrow i’ll smile idly,

wringing my hands,

as if to rip the blood from bone,

and dry them in the sunlight.