Friday, November 30, 2012

Where I Started as a Poem

In the dream I smooth a hand over my belly,
thick with ripeness, a pregnancy, a melon.
It ends in a stillbirth, creativity
bypassed, membranes of thought
flushed. A punishment arranged itself
in my sleep. Judgment of the self.
I wake in celestial sweat, slide one foot
onto a cold floor. I am gladder to be alive
in the dark, in the dank, where I started
as a cloud, where I started as a poem.

Monday, November 05, 2012


Last night’s dream is watermarked stationery,
the sudden and unexpected architecture
of your day. Climb inside, says the deaf man
with binoculars, and the ceiling opens up
into a wave of calendar pages, each one
a reward you can’t reach. Fix it, he pleads.
You don’t feel like repacking old ideas.
Sequential, he demands. His hand
is unfinished, three fingers missing.
He can only point like a gun.

It’s just a day like any other,
a deaf man in binoculars
with you as you butter your toast,
tune in your favorite radio station.
His hand, what did it mean?
Learn a second language, you think
as you tear off yesterday’s
page on the calendar.