Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Night Poems, version 5

The window is open, standing somewhere,
open to a door.

I walk the wrinkled corridor between dreams.
In the faces on the walls
the painted shadows shine.

Like trophy heads in a hunter’s jungle bungalow
lamps jut out,
all staring glass.

A mortgage locked by wet stamps
life insurance keyed to contrition

she rides a horse
wakes with car keys in her hand

Surely these clothes are blankets.
My mouth offers silence new shelter.

My hair? It won’t wake.
My eyes turn toward something they saw closed.

fingers up northern faces
of the mildly gated

lights lost in
among handles.

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