I Invent the World

I fold my arm again, smoothing the soft green blanket over my chest. The past comes whispering out at me, and with a snapping blink of wide-open eyes, I will it away. I have a world of almost-sleep, I build it every night as I turn and turn in bed. I go to it now. It once was the dream of a dream, much less than a world. Now, I spend many hours outlining every golden leaf, painting the scent of loamy earth in the air, imbuing even the lichen with a strange green surging life. One part of me screams for sleep; the other goes on, dressing flesh on ideas, spitting out a sun-lit shaft of golden hair. Characters here die and go unmourned, until the next night, when I reinvent the world again.

I dreamt of loving something used

I dreamt of loving something worn
a sodden cardboard sign
dissolving in the winter weather
I dreamt of loving something used.
I dreamt of loving Athos
of his eyes blazing bright with drink.
I laid my hand on his fevered cheek and
He whispered a name

It wasn't mine.

Unravel

Will every part of me unravel? Seams unroll and drop, trailing into puddles behind me. Will my hair start to fall out, in damp hanks into shaking hands?

I'd give whatever throbs within me for a single taste of your skin; if every time I opened my mouth to speak your name, I'd have been satisfied if a memory of my childhood escaped.

While sleeping, I grasp for your naked foot, your flush cheek, your outstretched hand.

When waking, instead of reaching, I turn away. Turn towards a distant hill, a brightly burning star, the horizon, each equally unreachable.

I search through stacks of yellowing pages and crumbling books for my most secret name, now long forgotten.