#46

I dreamed I was a lighthouse. Always the grace of God. And my ardour in a convex mirror, displayed and thus displaying. While he was where: the sidewalks steamed, the cannibals opened lips to drink the sun. Each word like an opened window, curtains of so much gestural fabric.

One prays, as if one's praying. Like a hole hidden behind a mirror or a frame. Limbs akimbo, and goodnight. The speech balloon that pops, so full of silence. Or the green, green garden, where he said I love you, a silver trinket, half-discarded.

I will write the future this way. Not the possible or the probable. A librarian's humble discharge. It's his cross to bear. Aposiopesis, that's tomorrow. The maid who has made the bed. Laundered clothes for temporal functions. Plant it, like a treasure chest for blooming.

And tell me a poem is not a memory. Let my hands that open, stutter, be all I need to relinquish.