no title

it is not an obligation
to write of the man asleep on the corner of Preston Street

who was not asleep but was given away in his approach
only by the clinking bottles in his pocket

and then three, triangulating me
a worse neighborhood than Brooklyn

by far, by far
and somehow in the dream I could see

what i had almost done
hit the man with the piano key scarf

with a cup to the temple
and the blood that poured out poured back in

and his eyes were closed and he was gone
and his eyes were open in dumbed alarm

and i was grateful to have another chance
i took the purple shoe he offered in stun

and left all the men behind
to wander the world with no blood on my hands

eyes closed, lids pressed

wine cellar

turn around the hallway made of stone
finger over mildew, wet and climbing moss
the sound of an airplane overhead
the smell of the musty cellar
fishing boots dangling like
a trunkless man

it is always this time

i stand inside a version of myself
the air is cool, the light is little,
cool, some, enough, the moss
and I clasp, lean
toward the light
the door open
like a lid to
the day that
still awaits
our slow
eventual
evolution
ability
to adapt
to full
exposure

white
hot
and
not

burn

five minutes: eyes closed

together we can grab the waist of the overflowed and murky creek
and lift and slowly redirect so it doesn't run right through our homes
and soak our shoes and beds and souls and fill us with more than too many tears

we can lift the road, the blocked and goaty road off the past and,
if we can get our arms under the beginning and the end we can lift it, maybe, like a weighty rope and swing it out wide to make it new, unexplored, as yet unseen curved around the wildoats

we can take up arms and lunge at voices and find the right stance for defense

it is better to not see your opponent
you know all you need to know
you can hear them coming

sense the direction of attack

if you open your eyes you will only be distracted by the weight of water, pushing always, the cement of the road and the signs and the gates,
the glint of the blade that will find you.

my eyes are closed

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

(this one might not work)

looooooooong day's journey into night.

eyes closed,
la

my eyes are open

all day - open
the pollen lifting over the river
the bright glint off the backs of fenders
the bottoms of the glasses i raise to the shelves
my own changing face and its eyes
looking open enough

but i saw nothing today
the life before me flat
as the front page
uncompelling.
ready for pulp.

i saw not one thing. all the visible
morning day evening night
until there - the big dipper
spilled night all over us and onto the ground
around us
as we said goodbye
only then

and then for just a moment
and the air moved (good night)
(travel safe) (did you get the book) (i love you)
covered in night
was i not
groping
as good as blind