A Perfect Circle

My day in endless loop,
I pretend, at least,
that there are tomorrows
loaded in a cosmic gun,
that go off with a bang and a bright sun.
You see,
there’s so much I should be doing,
and outside a world
to love and reject,
to take out on summer walks,
to fight with in evening streets,
and forgive in shadows of tenderness,
presses up against my window,
and peers in.
But I will lie here
in the thickening moods of myself,
while the day is lost to the sky,
while the knots of my love untie,
and the birds of the dusk rise and fall.
I will lie here on this floor,
in a room smeared with gold,
and cultivate stillness,
as a rebellion against the promises I’ve kept,
and the hours that march us all
to scaffolds of life.

Advertisements

Night Poem XXV

The night calls out,
death is death is death.
A crow beats its wings,
and night parts from night.
Absence, dawn,
she slips in like a lover,
remembered and forgotten.
I remember life,
and death is death is death.
I accept the beating of rugs in the morning,
the cries of women to each other,
the importance of trans-continental trade,
of men who whistle when they’re sad.
Life is death is life.
I am life,
I am a war of life
that the night could not eradicate just yet,
a music of ruined and resurrected love.
I declare myself an open city,
and the dawn slips in like a lover,
a liberator.
I pour her a cup of coffee.