a poem from the new collection
epilogue of the bear trap
I sleep in a square. I bookend my profiles with pillows and keep two below my head. Waking means lifting and climbing--sleeping means sinking. I dream surrounded.
Tell me what surviving did to us. Tight mouth and buoy boats—I’m not buying it. I stand in every aisle of the store, ignore the weekly list. I have no plans. I try to buy them, place palm around new ones in the far back. Does everything I own have an expiration date? How is my blood? Is it everywhere? Is it obvious? Do I need more?
In the back of the house, rotting limes. They liquefy. Porous green to a brown gray mass, happy dents.
Successful hand transplants. Do the veins and nerves ask each other to dance? Do they tangle like tree roots, fire their guns into the other’s shins & lapse into tango for life?
My coat attracts snowflakes, stellar dendrites on my shoulders and sectored plates up the nose and on lips as I walk from bus to house. I push my hand into the pile growing on the car hood. Sometimes I like winter I guess.
While crossing a street I imagine falling again. Why do I do this so much? Imagine falling and then various scenarios trip wired in the wake. A car can’t make the turn, no one feels obligated to help me up. Imagine laying there, cheek in a pothole. How much of the world would that change?
I sleep in a square. I bookend my profiles with pillows and keep two below my head. Waking means lifting and climbing--sleeping means sinking. I dream surrounded.
Tell me what surviving did to us. Tight mouth and buoy boats—I’m not buying it. I stand in every aisle of the store, ignore the weekly list. I have no plans. I try to buy them, place palm around new ones in the far back. Does everything I own have an expiration date? How is my blood? Is it everywhere? Is it obvious? Do I need more?
In the back of the house, rotting limes. They liquefy. Porous green to a brown gray mass, happy dents.
Successful hand transplants. Do the veins and nerves ask each other to dance? Do they tangle like tree roots, fire their guns into the other’s shins & lapse into tango for life?
My coat attracts snowflakes, stellar dendrites on my shoulders and sectored plates up the nose and on lips as I walk from bus to house. I push my hand into the pile growing on the car hood. Sometimes I like winter I guess.
While crossing a street I imagine falling again. Why do I do this so much? Imagine falling and then various scenarios trip wired in the wake. A car can’t make the turn, no one feels obligated to help me up. Imagine laying there, cheek in a pothole. How much of the world would that change?
Comments
Post a Comment