Agreeable
Empyrean
Spittle has constellated the sky
of my
deep blue pillow case over the course
of my
proprietary night though I
will
not name these formations
whose
permanence is only until
the
next wash when my celestial
canvas
will be clean until the next
night
when seven hours will heat up
my
private suns so spangle the surface
in the
quiet process, a Little Un-Bang,
of
building my Milky Way upon warmed
fabric
so agreeable to fragile, finicky cheek
a kind
universe into which I may fall unawares
into no
vacuum, zero pressure, and absolute freeze.
Exceptional Moment
The heat’s lash has curled
the
phone line atop the obsidian
curve
of the car that idles in front
of
mine. So directing the suddenly
black
licorice strand back into
the
shimmering blue air and some
destination
of the eyes that are prey
to the
illusion of the earth’s fervor
under
the sun, which often blinds
us to
the truth and its authority
of the
straight line leading to a
practical
place we must follow
if
taken to task—which, at times—
we may
avoid if only still
and
dreaming, forced by route
and
circumstance to look—only—
so free
to see in curves
that
refuse the rein of cold right.
Already Worked Out
Dreaming has exhausted me,
and I arise, cramped, with underlids
puffed as with the sand of night still
weighing the folds, full scales
with the heft of blind coin
pressed upon the lashes
that keep the sleeper closed
and dead to the world while the mind
exerts its muscle, curling my spine
to infant posture, a crustacean,
a crescent only ready to shrink
and wane while the young day waxes
to clarion calls of upright activity
and crisp locomotion, coordination,
which my tendons, ligaments, repel,
cranky rebels against the cause
that will in minutes, hours unfurl
me, whose head must clear
of oneiric mist to make a go
of these sixteen hours where
phantasms ever fear to tread.
Fugitive Relief
I claim sanctuary in the sacred
precinct
of Friday night—
free
from the coarse throats
that
will clamour soon enough
the
other side of the night’s holy wall.
Such a
small shrine is this, a width
of only
several hours in which I many
find
the glow of solace and a span safe
from
the rabble and its accusing maw
out
there in Saturday’s square where
echo
even upon those free flagstones
the
hoarse voices from the five-days
that
tug and test the faith of those
pressed
in working shifts to operate
far
from the relics of the leisurely
saint
that offer respite on that Eve,
whose
expanse is a hymn to the turned
within
and the sanct stillness of the lying-down.
Projector
Driven to drive-in movies as children, clad
in our
pajamas, so sensed by parents
the
transition from waking
to not,
the ninety minutes
upon
the screen whose size obscured
the
evening and night so ushered
in the
descent while still in the backseat,
unbelted,
into deep dream for one tot
or more
who had had enough of the day
long
since dark, and now lay, limp,
upon
home-return, within the care-folds
of
adult arms against the heavy drop
to the
earth of that day given farewell
by the
G-rated film, second feature
on the
double-bill unnecessary
to
shuffle the seven-year-old
and
siblings less off to eyes
opening
no earlier than the next
morning
whose face would rise
without
interruption and star only the sun
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