Sta.sh
last night, before you slept
you found the world awake, waiting
like a panther, on silent haunches.
you held her, like the last repeating
date of the century, between clenched teeth
(like the little punch of electricity beneath
your skin before the light fails )
to the bathroom mirror where she
left you with sequence:
the loveliness of your consciousness,
sown into the earth.
If you could speak, you’d tell me
of the sound your mind presumes
the light makes,
reflected off the walls of your
cathedral house.
(you hold the edge of bathtub like you would
the string of a guitar, the release of which
is dependent on the absent
fall of your hand –
if there is something that I cherish more
it would be the feel of a watch still ticking
underwater, or water in the nose and throat
to remind me of childhood )
the glimpse of a city without light:
your mind, on the edge of sleep, cajoles you
into arrangements of the cosmos
(the darkness that you watch
in sleep is analogous to your silence, keeping time
like the intervals of breath visible
in winter’s dead.
what you glimpse when you are left dipping
under, is the same inspiration
that turns you in – )
wards,
betrays you
to the cell of your city, full of light
sleeping beneath the belfry
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