Hopefully
Open window in early winter,
letting cold seep in, swelling
out in blanket covers, quilting
four faulty corners, water-damaged
walls and, in leaky ceiling cynicism,
cross-legged in late morning's light
with nothing much to do but
sort through endless paper categories,
learn some newly thought theory impractical,
I wonder of all the fun you're
having.
I look back on history texts,
the rivers of martyred blood
eroding deserts sandy face
of eons eternal, but I twinge,
selfish still as spoiled royalty
with quaking passion of fearful touch,
the unreality of warping signal
waiting, waiting in deadened pulp
paper passion; but I suppose
we are all but stardust in the
end.
And Then Three Days
Pass
A thousand shut doors ago,
when I was but a child in
the freezing of foggy gestures
I'd make to kitchen cupboards
television cabinets,
I was ever hesitant of crooked
hands, solemn looks of plenty
from mother, and the noises
drifting from father's upstairs
with the stained dog shag carpet.
A tempered lampshade purchase ago,
I thought I had found my myth's
becoming, hands to hold in shimmering
Isle light dawning, the carpentry
of fingers to build together some
house of worship.
A flick of the light switch ago,
I opened a thumbed-over volume of
60's confessional verse and stared
blank as the page; its word
holding no less an interest than past,
but in shade of flicking
computer tab screens of some
international relations professor's thoughts
on West Bank settlements I opened
to distract from message I sent in hoping
related reply.
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