"In your dream, a moonlight figure appears
at your bedside and touches your face.
He asks if he might share the bread
of your sorrow. You show him the table."
- Ted Kooser, Lobocraspis griseifusa
You want to hurl it at the grief-
stricken you, squatting in mirrors,
instead returning to the search for relief.
In your dream, a moonlight figure appears.
Its melody swirls in your tongue,
echoes of the familiar, but no longer adjace-
ent. In your dream, it clung
to your bedside and touched your face.
Hunting grounds exist everywhere for the prize
you search for, but silence flails it's screaming head
as you watch the passing of one thousand mayflies.
I ask if I might share the bread.
Shared stories birth laughter and tear as we nourish
our torn worlds. What we want is stable,
so I promise to contrast the flourish
of your sorrow. You've shown me the table.
I decided to experiment with a poetic form called a Glose or Glosa, native to Spain. A Glosa is made of a stanza from another poem, called the cabeza,"followed by the glosa proper, which is as many stanzas as there are lines in the cabeza, and each stanza ends with the next line from the cabeza. I took a stanza from Ted Kooser's Lobocraspis griseifusa. It's a bit rough and abstract, but I had fun with it anyway.