I Am Sleeping
Between my cardboard suitcase and a distant,
Reflective highway sign.
I have let my driver’s license expire.
My “Social Security” number is lost under a bridge abutment.
In my second dream, morning steam rises
From a tan field of shaved, wet grass.
(The roads and the dreams often laugh together,
Like they are enjoying some painful, private joke.)
I am joining the early morning reds and yellows
By making a sewing needle
From a thick, triangular bar of rusty iron.
Perfume, caramel, hot chocolate
And corduroy thighs, crossed at the knee,
Speak of hundreds of yesterdays,
And even before then, as flowers can change a woman.
There was a baby, later, once, a son.
(Was there ever a more perfect line for a love poem
Than the “Fleetwood Mac” song lyric:
“When you build your house, call me?”)
Questions and answers will make
The oldest corner of the past
Become even older.
The colors when you step on top of a bug,
Or when you step on top of an earthworm:
Is that like a bleeding from underneath?
Dark, feral angels, down from the blue-green sky,
Beat those extended, flat black wings past my heart,
As if they will never let me come to a rest.
Soft is now extremely hard to find, and even then,
It is not at all like what it used to be.
May 16, 2010