and see it as if for the first time.
On the nightstand, a homely cylinder ascends space,
a hollow well for for morning tea, a cistern of thought,
a place where I dwell, mornings, as I begin the day’s journey.
The handle sticks out like a sore ear, I’m listening to the air.
Sometimes in my hand blocks the sound
as I raise it closer to my lips, it whispers secret assignations,
and it carries the burden of proof that morning has arrived,
and that I have survived yet another night.
When I am done, it shakes its mane like a lion
as if to greet the open savannah ahead.
With its speckled skin glaze, it’s a reverse map of the stars.
It says Chaos Coordinator etched in gold, and indeed it is.
2/5/22 From Patrice Veccione’s Write Your Eyes Open Zoom workshop
No comments:
Post a Comment