| You lie bent up in embryo sleep
|
| Below the painting of the blue fisherman
|
| Without a pillow
|
| The checkered cover kicked and tangled on the
|
| Floor
|
| The old house creaking now
|
| A car going by
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| The wind
|
| A fire engine up the hill
|
| I’ve disentangled myself from you
|
| Moved silently
|
| Groping in the dark for cigarettes
|
| And now three cigarettes later
|
| Still elated
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| Still afraid
|
| I sit across the room watching you —
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| The light from the street lamp coming through the
|
| Shutters
|
| Hysterical patterns flash on the wall sometimes
|
| When a car goes by
|
| Otherwise there is no change
|
| Not in the way you lie curled up
|
| Not in the sounds that never come from you
|
| Not in the discontent I feel
|
| You’ve filled completely
|
| This first November day
|
| With Sausalito and sign language
|
| Canoe and coffee
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| Ice cream and your wide eyes
|
| And now unable to sleep
|
| Because the day is finally going home
|
| Because your sleep has locked me out
|
| I watch you and wonder at you
|
| I know your face by touch when it’s dark
|
| I know the profile of your sleeping face
|
| The sound of you sleeping
|
| Sometimes I think you were all sound
|
| Kicking free of covers
|
| And adjusting shutters
|
| Moving about in the bathroom
|
| Taking twenty minutes of our precious time
|
| I know the hills
|
| And gullys of your body
|
| The curves
|
| The turns
|
| I have total recall of you
|
| And Stanyan Street
|
| Because I know it will be important later
|
| It’s quiet now
|
| Only the clock
|
| Moving toward rejection tomorrow
|
| Breaks the stillness
|
| There are golden apples to be picked
|
| And green hills to climb
|
| And meadows to run when you’re young
|
| There are roaring rivers to be crossed
|
| And bridges to build
|
| And wild oats to sow as you grow
|
| But later on the other side of time
|
| The apples no longer taste sweet
|
| Bridges fall down
|
| Meadows turn brown
|
| As life falls apart
|
| In a little room on Stanyan Street |