now is the time, she says.
she says a lot of things, though.
it's enough, it's enough to watch walls
crumble like chalk in the hand of a child;
it's enough to watch sunrise without dread.
now is the time, she says.
I say not much, they say.
not much like a Polaroid
of a dead owl in your dresser drawer;
it's not much like a flower caught in a fence.
factual information is less than an obituary
telling you that your wife is dead.
my inalienable right to make pancakes
at three AM is where I flail in moonlight
like a strange yellow fish swimming with cane and toothache.
but, ah, what was that she said---
a million things all at once with no simile
(the walls make sound, but
my eyes are a million things said on Sundays)
no cohesion, no considerable operations,
no calorie is succinct, no little bubble in your mouth...
my terrible thing weeping towards a shelf always
with pretty words pretty eyes pretty nowheres--
my wound grows down the trees like ivy
my hands reach towards you, I close me eyes--
I breathe I breathe
smaller breathes to not disturb you.
so soft and calm with gossamer in your eyes,
you shift like the moon tossing
on waves of cloud;
what gods have I to curse
when thou art fled?
Little lines can't suffice,
empty is a word not full--
opulence and splendor
like my toes in the damp summer grass.
inhale, please, and take your pulse
out in the cold because
the dryer is broken,
everything beeps at me
and houses shiver in nightmare.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC
now is the time, she says.
she says a lot of things, though.
it's enough, it's enough to watch walls
crumble like chalk in the hand of a child;
it's enough to watch sunrise without dread.
now is the time, she says.
I say not much, they say.
not much like a Polaroid
of a dead owl in your dresser drawer;
it's not much like a flower caught in a fence.
factual information is less than an obituary
telling you that your wife is dead.
my inalienable right to make pancakes
at three AM is where I flail in moonlight
like a strange yellow fish swimming with cane and toothache.
but, ah, what was that she said---
a million things all at once with no simile
(the walls make sound, but
my eyes are a million things said on Sundays)
no cohesion, no considerable operations,
no calorie is succinct, no little bubble in your mouth...
my terrible thing weeping towards a shelf always
with pretty words pretty eyes pretty nowheres--
my wound grows down the trees like ivy
my hands reach towards you, I close me eyes--
I breathe I breathe
smaller breathes to not disturb you.
so soft and calm with gossamer in your eyes,
you shift like the moon tossing
on waves of cloud;
what gods have I to curse
when thou art fled?
Little lines can't suffice,
empty is a word not full--
opulence and splendor
like my toes in the damp summer grass.
inhale, please, and take your pulse
out in the cold because
the dryer is broken,
everything beeps at me
and houses shiver in nightmare.
