Friday, December 30, 2016

because this is just the beginning of the day

above the frieze of darkness
the sun has drenched
the clouds
with painterly pinks

the land is a jumble sale
of pointed branches snagging
finds     on the arm of one poplar tree 
a plastic bag gently swings
as if to remind me that the purpose of an arm
is to carry

darkness vanquished
is a victory of sorts   I tell myself
I will peel off my night face
and heat the morning one up
with the light of a wet sun
simple acts of rebellion like this
ensure that the ghosts that live in stars
cling to those mantels like suicides that never happened

inside the house the sun
has puddled on the floor
the maple strips gleam
as if a rag of wax
has been spread
and as if the golden hands
of the sun had repeatedly
brassed over it with the eternal rag of light

meanwhile I have read a poet
who for a while 
kept me awake
but then found reality
drugs   broken heart   death
this is depressing     I thought
I don't want to be real here
I flipped pages until I got to the end of the thin tablet
already I have read too many wasted lives
spread out like chicken bodies in an influenza plague
you get hardened to the bodies    when they pile up
like children in long rows waiting for the future that won't come

because this is just the beginning of the day
let me keep it pristine
without dead children in it
let me watch the amaryllis imitate 
a leaning tower shaking with fists of pink
let me focus on the words multiplying
like the African violet leaves in their too small pots
exhausting me with their fervid desire to overcome limitations
let me sit in this poem and bask in the warmth of the wet sun 

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