When the morning's too heavy,
and the bells are too loud,
where do you go? Nowhere.
There is nowhere to go.
The stencilled shadows,
the smooth sky, the cloudless water:
they are not me. I am not them.
I'm not you, either, and
you aren't me. I ain't calling you out.
I'm just howling, sunrise,
howling, sunset, howling, moonrise,
howling as my axis turns over
in the bed, beneath the window.
Sun in my space--an intrusion.
It's a terrible taste in my mind
this morning, with the light
falling all over itself. It's cold,
not nearly quiet enough, and
it's all folding itself over me.
The distance is love,
searing burning bush love,
each leaf a ruby solid,
its meaning buried in the dirt
clinging to the roots.
Stretch; the joints murmur.
Beauty is bound to the limbs,
the dripping fingers,
the limping feet as they find
the cracks in the sidewalk.
Even the lion, beneath the night,
purrs, in the dusty soil.
The scratches on my hands
mean so much other than what
they mean, could mean.
Close the drawer; slide it softly.
The phone interrupts someone else.
The speakers whisper.
Already the mish-mash of the day
determines the keening beat
of the scorched heart,
the beaten brain,
the listless lips.
What does holy mean?
What does cold mean?
What does love mean?
---
01.18.06
MWL
