Friday, 12 July 2013

New-Old Writing (2 Poems)

Staying in for Winter

The sky is greying, dark;
my eyes do not open to
a shuttered sun, I slumber,

Tossing, twitching, the radiator's
heat clamming close to this
skin, I must awake at some time.

I do, oh, as always cold
sweating for the cracked
window, dried off from dreamer's running.

The snows have unfallen yet,
only speckles through the morning's
sky;the trees have no lights,

I hear the shouts through drywall,
brick and steel beam: they are
there, this I cannot dent, only

Turning from the cold lights
of rattling hallways, the cold
airs of outside, I lie back

And stay in a night once more.

There are too many things on
This desk, too many emblems,
Too many little trinkets:

But how could I ever let them

Each perfect, each so well-refined,
With their broken pieces, their tattered
Corners, nothing would be moreso.

Then again, I’d still sleep clutching
My nursing bear.

The clutters tugs me back,
Back to the old times, back
To the sunlight: I slam the
Small door, trying to shut it
Out, to live only here,
In this moment.

This place would be too cold without
It, the walls too bare, the air too
Empty; and what else could I hope
To fill the space with?

I cannot grow, like the trees’ roots
Burrowing beneath the frost-ground,
I shudder to the touch of new
Soils: they feel as molten ask
To my pallid skin.

I line them one-by-one,
All in neat little rows,
Like a general of the old
Lore, like an obsessive infant:

I cling to these past emblems,
Knowing none else, knowing
Not the vastness of time,
Too scared to step.

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