Just inside of sleep
still conscious of the sheets, snow
falling and moonlight.
A stranger crosses
my grandmother’s shaded lawn
fifty years ago.
This is the alchemy.
revelation. Eyes open
in the dark. My love
breathing beside me. Chill breeze
from the cracked open window.
The past is leaving me now
because I am too small to contain it.
I argue that I’ve grown too deep,
that it sinks into my yellow brown light
like a shipwreck; like a stone.
Sometimes sitting still, disappearing, I recall the experience of Time as a child.
In the quiet living room drinking a cup of coffee before the start of a busy day I remember; I wanted to be liked, win the race, be a superhero and Lipton soup salesman like my dad. Nothing was crucial. But I could drown in the shower or die in the dark. Something was always under the bed. I believed in God and my parents and that everything would be alright. It was just my imagination.
And I was not responsible.
We find. Grip and squeeze. Paint our faces dance
grow feathers and fly. Preoccupy. Become.
Sound of saltwater licking dark stone,
bleached white roots and branch. Drift and sway.
Skin shed. Antlers dropped damp and spotted green.
Rusty spikes. Tin cans, porcelain shards and bottles.
That drawing on the wall. This poem.
These words. Beach-glass and broken shell strung
on fishing line or binder twine and worn
around the neck
for one meteor-showered moment.