Saturday, January 16, 2010

something meaningful (for emily dickinson)

I’ve spent my life stuck in rooms like these—

stuck in thoughts like these—

spackling my brains on bored walls,

with the always ague stuck in my bones.

The chance of windows still survives

as nerves of tombs dwindle into livewires.

Leadless hours are there too of course,

and possible memory becomes

the now of when

on never sidewalks

towards which I tread.

As too, of course,

imagining despair becomes despairing—

like taking up space,

like superglue stuck to the eyelids,

like spokes of shrink-wrapped sunlight.

I’ve spent through my life at the mercy of this mercurial machine.

Nothing’s wretched.

Everything is complacent.

Glad ideas wrench the garbage disposal of my worries

and spark like shards of a wooden spoon splintering…

eyes unheard of things…

All that is not

(the pierce of a stunned heart as it icily defrosts)

is all that is lost.

Before a numb miracle

a minor ache sputters out.