Friday, 19 August 2011
Poem from a hotel room on the way back from fishing at my brother's
Two nights ago the stars were violent dancers,
godlike, crushing whole worlds underfoot.
An insect with horn-rimmed glasses
I sat on the blunt edge of the sword
that cut the perfect pieces of cloth -
dark and unremembered as the void -
from which creation was pieced, a patchwork.
This morning I sit on a bed, minutes
after the day woke me up with its mist-
colored breath light on my face,
thinking of the fish I didn't catch
and the words that slipped through
the widening meshes of my mind.
I had to put my pen down, shut my notebook,
and go back outside. Midnight.
The stars were violent dancers.
Not a cloud in sight, blue skies.
Ten straight days of heat
and the endless turning
of the world that sits
on top of my shoulders.