Sometimes in the summer sunrise the cat
Claims the long space between our bodies, sleeping. You,
Stripped down, still as a statue toppled in the sun.
My arms cartwheel under and over the sheet.
Enter the cat:
An ampersand of belly and spine, fur to spare, he slips
In the channel with jigsaw cunning, a yoga master of sleep. Perhaps
The quick delicious mouse who runs through the cat's dream
Will find refuge in the hollow of your ear-- I know
My dreams have traveled there, sometimes.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Can I forgive the poet inside?
Rude-word scrawler, tiger-tooth tickler,
Scrappy town brawler, infant bawler.
Bone grubber, rag picker, hoarder of valves and keys.
The poet inside sets fire to foolscap. A light,
A fanfare, a tree speaks, a bicycle spoke,
One blink the world is gone and whoosh
All is resurrected. An iron nail, a blood red ruby
Flash and burn on the wrists of saints,
True and false. Blessed are the poets:
Scattershot word thieves,
The ones who wield a pen with clumsy love.
Blessed are those who careen after wholeness,
Slipping on word spill, tripping on truth,
Half-awake, wholly foolish, aware and unaware,
Witless wise guys drunk on witness.
Image borrowed from the website Retronaut. They don't offer an explanation either.