Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

46/365 - 51/365

Within the bedroom,
on the edge of the window,
dead insects collect.
At night their ghosts haunt our dreams,
diving, buzzing in our ears.

The clock confirms ten.
Every light in the house burns
against the night's hour—
and I lie in bed waiting
for a deeper darkness.

Throughout the full night,
the air conditioner chirped
every five seconds;
I dreamt of fields at midnight,
a wide chorus surrounding.

Copper-blue horses
covered with clapperless bells
carry small children—
whose arms are filled with heavy
absence— to see dry rivers.

A surprise sense of
contentment emerges when
off of the back roads,
in the middle of dry fields:
one blue pony seen galloping.

Random hawks circling
tight spirals over backroads—
they coil summer winds
into a close braid of past,
present, and future tenses.

1 comment:

  1. like that last paragraph or whatever you call it


    random hawks circling
    very cool