Hope is the thing with feathers
In its teeth. It dogs you in the doorway
Sarcoptic, fleas, starving soul
bared to each stranger he meets, a stranger
to your heart but not the streets.
You know the one.
May the thorns only kiss,
Sweet remiss, the blood only
Raspberry syrup, sticky lips, and
May the night be lit, yes, to wit,
May only daylight blind your dreams,
Dancing blue eyes, dancing river
Butterflies, only these may you find,
Like you never left them behind,
Like you never went arms open
Heart wide, into the world, oh god,
May it be kind, may it only be kind.
Night brings a host of ugly
Wounded things. My heart strings
A refuge of birds with broken wings
I am a canopy to sleep beneath
And wake with feathers in my teeth, like
When I think of the river I wished would flood
I think of wasps, of sweat, of mud
And when I picked those berries and kissed
My hands, and I wished it were blood
I think I'd like to spit at the moon. I think I may have
Left too soon. There was a beggar I passed
And never gave her a second look
I think of the lie that's holding me fast
I brace myself early when I know it won't last
I think of that photograph I never took
I think I might write that horrible book
But fear the damage it could do, because
What if what it said were true?
I think of love, and the shame I knew
And you, of course, I think of you
Longing of the surface reaches even
Waters deep, little troubled bubbles which
Through lightless horrors creep, to
Find a yearning current crushed by all
The sea its underneath, to raise it up from
Breathless dreams the lunged creatures
Gasp for in their sleep. And though it's
Sick with salt at thought of sweetness,
Like a felon at the oars, whatever deeps
It dredges up may never see this brilliant
Sun of yours. And so while drawn to light
Of day from dark and weedy floors,
It trembles at the privilege but to touch
Your once-warmed shores, and ripples
Under moons who merely mirror heaven's
Scores, and offers awful ink-stained prayers
That it may surface one night more.
For the sake of the story, I will tell you what really happened. You, two young stars in a single orbit, blossomed over the foggy window in your rising, and I, a fat dull moon, was eclipsed.
Watching headlights on a ten hour bus ride somewhere in Bolivia.
The stone, alone, fears gentle rains,
For over time, they wore her.
Inside, she knows, as stones must do,
She's made of all who came before her.
This little poem mumbled
To me in our sleep, the
Little things the morning
Of the strangest kind a
Cloudy sky might find beneath,
Above my head as I walk
Upon whatever the night
Rain swept through the
Streets. Reminds me with
My eyes half opened busted
Seams, spilling still such
Pillowy things, of the
Prayer I washed down
The bathroom sink, oh,
And the eyelash I think you
Dropped in my dreams.