Evening

the sky is mine, I claim it.

The odd dartings of bats, even, are mine; I like them less than the birds

and much less than fireflies.

the single insect suspended in lucid air

between two fronds of warm palm

is also mine.

I want all the pieces of this.

The moon sits on a spiral staircase tonight

and you talk of a trip from years ago.

and yes, I want that long-ago time-

if I walk back into all those years,

I hope

the moon would be the same.

The Companion

The moon is now tired

of rolling in the sky

like a hurt and broken bead.

I reach out

through the window of the rain

pluck it out

and place it on top of my half-read book.

It beats there,

like a pulse.

Leaning into the Afternoons...

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lenghtens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that wave like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

The birds of night peck at the stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.

Invisible Dreams

I’m awake when I’m sleeping & I’m
sleeping when I’m awake, & no one
knows, not even me, for my eyes
are closed to myself.
I think I am thinking I see
a man beside me, & he thinks
in his sleep that I’m awake
writing. I hear a pen scratch
a paper. There is some idea
I think is clever: I want to
capture myself in a book.
*
I have to make a
place for my body in
my body. I’m like a
dog pawing a blanket
on the floor. I have to
turn & twist myself
like a rag until I
can smell myself in myself.
I’m sweating; the water is
pouring out of me
like silver. I put my head
in the crook of my arm
like a brilliant moon.
*
The bones of my left foot
are too heavy on the bones
of my right. They
lie still for a little while,sleeping,
but soon they
bruise each other like
angry twins. Then
the bones of my right foot
command the bones of my left
to climb down.

The Insomniac Learns a Lot

Dark voices talk to her
about the most poisonous substance
known to man, about heirloom potatoes
and for an hour acute pain.
Next week: chronic pain.

All around her tiny green, red and orange lights
where things are in sleep mode and standby mode.
The house is a city full of traffic
needing to be told when to stop and go.

Underneath the covers her body is busy
and warm as an animal.
So many litres of sweat drain out of it
she might drown in her mattress
might lie in it like a tank
like a glass coffin.

All night the house ticks and clanks
like a cake cooling on a rack.
With its curtains drawn it is blind
and only two eyes open
only two doll’s eyes fighting open.

In the morning men come to break bottles
men come to cut, they leap from their truck
and mow down hundreds of daisies
that at night close up like fields of fists
because even flowers
know how to go to sleep.