My thoughts are creepers
Which grow, leaning against reality,
Watered by the night in all its darkness
And dewdrops in the form of stars that twinkle:
Cool to the touch, glistening with hope
Wrapping themselves far too tight
Around me – alive and also not,
like a goat for sacrifice.
My hands are free to wander
Above, around, beneath, below:
Against the grain, and sweat from bodies
From which I pull all of my despair out and hang
It out to dry in the heat of the sun when
My thoughts shrink back into their pod
disappear from the recesses of mind
Like acetone off linoleum.
My mouth unveils my verses
And raises the hair on the back of his back
And my neck to stand in ovation, respecting
The distance between us, like water on the edge
Of a waterfall receding – slowly; to the rhythms
Of instruments facing extinction, sacraments
Of single copy smudged by fingers of overuse
Like the language of love.
My eyes are suddenly a fertile
Ground for tears, a fabric ripped apart
From the seams of feeling by the agonies
Of life: such is the story, that if I wove every tear
In this stained tapestry together, close into
A circle, and hung it with feathers from
Birds that sing of murder and sleep
It still wouldn’t catch a dream.
I turn around.
I walk away.