SLEEP AT LAST
The night is charm
school,
Is rent monies
paid.
It's me in my
armor
with the feel of
wool,
pajamas floating across my
body
like clouds in the permanent
state
of about to land.
The night needs
only breath for
substance,
and gentle stuff at
that,
the ripple kind,
the rustling lake
surface
that soaks away
dirt,
buries sweat.
The day's like
a crime that's been
committed.
Sleep is the cops
arriving,
this body, the perfect
weapon
with its chamber-full of
stillness,
Arms crunched into my
body,
I keep the turmoil
from getting at the
chaos,
but allow space
enough
for dreams to pass on
through.
WHAT IF
What if
all that kisses and
touches
should turn to
stone,
Medusa's eye-print on the
couple
in the car, or strolling through
the park,
or rolling on the
bed.
I’d still risk it, even blind,
deaf, dumb,
as crippled as a
statue.
And then if, frozen, we screamed
out
inside ourselves, that cry lost
in marble,
in granite, in a church wall, a
building's foundation.
I’d shriek until my throat
burned,
keep on believing you would hear
me.
They could ship us
anywhere:
one in city center anchoring a
fountain,
the other in the
wilderness,
crumbling into earth's
catch-all.
But I’d still be feeling
it,
still be fighting
it.
Yes, these are the days when
anything could happen:
spontaneous combustion, elephant
stampede,
second coming, black
hole.
Love's under
threat
from ways you can't
imagine.
You can't die of
it
but it can die of
you.
THE SETTING
Comes the night,
the sun sinks in the
lake,
leaves a rippling scarlet
wake.
It drops down over
mountains,
paints the white
tips.
It disappears
somewhere
inside the
windowpane,
streaks the glass.
Mantle souvenirs swallow
it,
the orange Eiffel
Tower,
the golden silver
dollar.
My parents clink their
glasses.
A star melts in the
wine.
From gleaming rug
to ruby walls,
the room's a resting
place
for fire, for
light
On the coffee
table,
that orb descends in
photographs,
a most revered dwelling
place,
grandparents’ ruby
eyes.
Up in my room,
I capture sunset
in the pages of a crimson
book,
bleeding
Stevenson,
wounded Pyle.
The red world is
brief
but beautiful.
For a time we live
color,
thwart the ageless
black.
John Grey
