Only now I wonder if I show my soul
just to feel that I have one,
to feel that it’s there and not lost or
having some how slipped out of me
like a crumpled up love note from my pocket.
I used to dream that all of my teeth were falling out.
I’d feel the first rolling around on my tongue, foreign
and estranged. Like I never knew it to begin with,
now out of place and with nothing to do
but be spit out into a strange hand quizzically.
And one by one they would like stalactites
cascade onto the then writhing
muscle feeling something new,
a fearful tongue,
and I with fearful tongue and speechless,
a mouthful of confusion, I, skipping stones
into the dark pool of my mouth, am lost.
Only now when I wake
do I still bare my teeth.
With the longing that day break brings into coming day and grey of dawn, an unfocused haze of visibility besets the open plain on which a cottage is set. The landscape once fluttered in the wind like an emboldened flag, and is now old and sentimental, fluttering no longer but set in place with waves and rolling hills: a timeless icon of the American Midwest. I look out from a window at the front of the cottage. My left hand placed above my head against the window frame holds my weight as I lean forward into the view from where the house stands, atop a ripple in the flag. I slightly lean more forward and close my eyes exhaling. I can feel my breath collect before me on the window. It is surprisingly warm. My forehead softly presses upon the cold moist glass. There is dew outside. I know, despite not having yet gone out this morning, but closed eyed and warm breathed and against glass cold and pressed I know there is dew. And slowly as I without end exhale closed eyed against cold glass I know the sun breaks forth from bleak faint light. The glass gradually grows in warmth and makes less show of its wicking battle bereaving breath.
I know that I am forlorn and lost and there is no going back
when I have begun already falling in love with people I don’t even know
and my heart drifts out beyond even my reach and Sudddenly the Sea becomes
the closest coast to my metaphorical mass and I begin writing love notes
shaped like boats and send them out into the raging storm.
They are built to sink, made of heavy words and dreams.
They are holdfasts to my hearts past and an inexcusable future.
They are artificial reefs of exhausted songs
and played out tires burning endlessly under water.
When I lie down, collapsing into bed,
rolling over onto my back, and close
my eyes before bringing both hands
up to my face and impel them to run
fingers through my hair: weathered
and telling fingers, tired and restless
hair, in the interrupted closingness of
shuttered eye’s lids and winged brush
of perhaps unjaded lashes let loose, I
will stop the desedimentation of my self
and start to build something I too can enjoy.