Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A Dream, Probably


Your thoughtful call
So curt
It quieted
My cozy seasonal objections--
A performance
To initiate,
A familiar solstice-sensation
Of Christmas-time rejection
Decorated with cheap LEDs
Blinking my
Gelid isolation,
For the long dark hall
That seems to always be
The length of a December--
Blubbering, stumbling on
From black to dim and back,
Again and again;
Playful peeks
To make me wonder
If what shadows I desired
Were attached to a form,
Weary and hunched
Creeping along stone walls…
And all the while,
The sun, still out to lunch
And Time's red brake lights,
Tapping on and off--
Stubborn, silly old man,
Slow and determined
Deaf to my belligerent honks…
Then onward once
The insistent winds
Pour me to rest
Into my prison of home,
Those muddled waters
Where I swim circles with
My old reel to reel
Of self-devouring--
Indecisive Pisces,
Weaving belief
With loops and spirals
Thorough, from the threads
Of what I know--
Oppressive silence;
My Ouroboros;
Into something--
A dream, probably,
That does not exist
Outside of me.


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