2010 17 March
This room, its comforts, soft
sheets, firm bed, the white
noise machine pretending
to be the sea -- one dog curled
at your feet, the other twitching
with her own nightmares
on her own bed -- ceiling fan
casting dust & air
on the silk Asian carpet.
The bed clothes are obstreperous,
they wrinkle & ball & refuse
to smooth themselves.
The *better-than-a-man* pillow
isn't. You fall, briefly, & walk
through narrow rainy streets.
Your cloak billows & clings
in all the wrong places.
This wrap, these streets,
this starless rain, all
a clumsy, incompetent lover
sucking & blowing
stalking you into dementia.
You wake. For a moment
you know who you are.
But the rope is cut
& you drift again.
The shutters permit the moon
to leak through. Books
on the shelves whisper,
pass notes back & forth,
each adding a cite, a line
until the final document
is impossible to decipher.
It makes no sense, even
the books don't know
which wrote what word,
what warning, what
admonition. The sea still
waves & washes.
The cat quietly enters,
sits and watches
as cats will do, before
deciding. She will wake you.
She will bring you back
to a bright morning
with clear, sharp boundaries
& obligations. You will
remember who you are.
*************
>
> --
>
> sharon brogan
> http://www.spoet.com
>
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