mardi, octobre 19, 2004


Doors keep slipping
and breaking
from my fingers.

They slide all one-sided
and hot like tallow
onto the floor to crack.
I’ve pushed them
further harder
they always break, these doors.

I walked the edge
of my seat,
worn out the pattern on my shoes,
served dry-heat
and belly-tossing cards around
to a circle of dead red

And I can’t find one of them now.
Buried or gone
to sea or
hatched from Febuary.

I broke a promise
to the church
forgetting handles
and locks
leaving keys unattended
on pews or
on dressers.

I broke through doors before,
but never one like this one.
This one has:
luck, beauty, grace
like a dandelion.

You should see the way I smile these days
all knock knees and glue.
No grit.
My dreams of rotten teeth
and harnesses

that cut
will flock to perch
all dark and angry
over sleep.

Suspiciously one like another,
to tussle with
on a good day that WILL go bad,
moves and marks,

benches, parks
and me.