blackeyesunrise

What of the clouds
that form rapacious-like
along the long horizon
of our city;

over the sea,
thin cobwebs have settled
as the moon scuttles towards
its hapless prey:

the thousand knots
wrapped in silk that become
the unnamed stars.

We smoke in thoughtless
silence. Two plumes
lift away.

There is nothing left
to give now
as the orange belly
descends upon us,

a spotted maw to welcome
our disaster
as we swing entranced,

as far off ships
lose their bearings,
sailing upwards by cover
of darkness,

ensnared by wild dreams
and reasonless fog,

the lights
that become faces
that become
the unclaimed stars.

We are made to
feel indistinct then.

You tell me: the clouds
shroud more than light
they steal our souls,

and this is how we live —
with traffic jams
in our hearts

and our throats always
catching, as if
on the verge of tears.

A minor upheaval, upturning
the indiscretions of a poet,

And out of all the heavens
I like this one
best:

The one where the hero goes
by sunset, triumphant
as Bellerophon
just before the gadfly

Be still for a moment.
In the year that I lost you
I drank more than I ate,
roads stank of curbs
which reeked of red
and peered over looming space.

I said: hear now,
in the hour of my undoing,
I reject you,
oh my dead friend,
your fearful symmetry cannot fold me
into the syllogism of paper cranes.
we are done,
finally.

There is nothing left of us,
not even a memory,
not even love,
this evening is just another crest
against the chest
while the heart still beats
to be broken.

* * *

That’s it.

Watching reflections on a window at a stoplight’s red,
the world passes all in pauses and lingering waits.
I walk out in search of human voices
but the night is fair and full of wraiths,
in the falling leaves their footsteps linger by my door.

I speak to the wind,
to cold metallic ears of phones,
to myself beneath oaks and languorous skies,
but I haven’t spoken, not really,
no, not at all.

Like a loaded gun without a trigger:

Through dew and mist, reflections blur
and the window asks my name.
I tell her winter has come;
that it came as if a line to be crossed,
a dark usurper decreeing end to song and flight.
Do we dare rise against this woven prince?

Desolation comes too complete.

It comes from alleyways untouched by eyes or love,
beneath toolsheds festering without light,
monstrous shadows gorging on summer’s emptier nights.
It comes tiptoeing on silver feet of mice,
skittering through pantries of your chest
and down your back like ice.

In abandoned garages,
it rustles half-awake in boxes set aside,
scents long after summer banquets
whispering in refrigerators moaning of murky mimes,
arctic memories swirling endlessly for want of human eyes.

The coldness invades the bones;
it enters the heart brooding of unmapped wilderness,
bad news on good days,
hearing bleating dreams blazing down
stars on moonless lullabyes.

Winter comes, even here, this desert land;
there’s a shuffle and a bow,
it’s outside your door, on the porch, in the trees.
There’s a howl and a slink,
it rises from dead ravines and falls from living fog.

And red paint in every stoplight staring out,
waiting for a greenlit go.

Only a song, and the changing of seasons.

What will December bring
but your voice from far away?
No, not you nor your voice;
echo and echo,
snowflakes down a long and lonely line.

[Original Post Date: 11/14/2003]

* * *

Found this old piece and converted it into a poem. Ex-girlfriend at the time was setting off to traipse through Europe for winter break. And I wrote this thinking about missing her and waiting for a red light green. Somewhat lame.