Insomnia I wish Id known, when I said I wanted my ashes scattered here and there, that part of my ghost would hang like fog in the garden and another there, on your sweet neck, still another in the desert lemon groves, and the last among stars where, for a price, Id been sent up in a rocket with the others. But we dont know these things before we die. Waking at four, which has become my habit, I wander through the house and collect my dream self that has gone rooting around the living room, through the shelves, settling on inscriptions in gift books, or in an old pair of shoes that with their misshapen soles carry the imprint of me, the balance, the angle of my walk. Somewhere in the trees outside a bird opens one eye. The position of the planet says spring even though snow lingers, and that is the way it always is, one foot in hope the other rooted in pain and refusing to release into the unfamiliar landscape of the present with all its unnamed mysteries. A childs hand leads me, blind, into whatevers next. Ill go back to sleep, perhaps, after this tea. Maybe something will have resolved itself before I wake, or Ill be keelhauled through Lethe and come back fresh.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 12:32:44 +0000
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