i wait upon the hour for the bed to break my back and for
my tired bones to crumble beside my self with shifting eyes upon the
wall opposing the clock that has not hands but a mouth of
which i kiss
from the end of another hour i can only rest
myself assuredly against the fleshy walls of an insomniacs dream,
i sink viscously into the last toc and am stuck until sunlight
to your ghost..
when will you pass through me?
the birds pass through the barren stories of
dismembered childhoods looking for
something to move, something it could remember :
there are no worms to eat of, the trees are now bone piles
turning to dust.
the children pass through the gates as if all the world was new to them, and perhaps it could be,
but then the eyes of every little one of them meet sharply with mine and i am distraught that perhaps
they already know of what lays before them: a desolate yard, not a tree to climb nor the shade it would bring,
only a patchwork of burning for no reason but to burn,
quickly they look away to laugh- i cannot.
october passes through an open
window, november passes through my hands,
sand doomed to the sea,
an hourglass doomed to breaking,
you will pass my bed once or
twice before i try and touch you saying
come here now
i only pass through the lives of others/ i pass through and then find
myself alone by the end of a day/ i pass alone through the deer laid path, not looking
for the deer but for myself / i pass arm and arm with whomever has arms; bearing
together as to not be afraid/ i pass my fear away to angels and a prayer along to
god looking not for an answer, but the end.
i pass through woods to find wood, and water to go under/ i pass through glass after glass
of whatever tonic is handling me tonight/ i pass through the skin of notorious
lovers over and over but cannot get to the other side; your ghost meets me at the doorway of it,
changing the lock and asking for secrets of which i never held with my own hands,
but my hands held you, of whom held the secrets; my hands pass through only the
thought of your body, but cannot imagine what it ever was like.
i pass through the e'er darkened night into the plain
view of starlit morning like the loneliest bird passing through barren childhood stories,
all the children laughing in the face of bone piles turning to dust,
october slipped and fell, it has died as you have, november shall die too,
and with it all you pass through me quietly, and away, and
again i am rocking myself back to sleep knowing that
all i am is the passing of time, the tic of a clock made of mouths
hanging at the doorway of a dream.