Monday, November 23, 2015

Magic Hat 11.23.15



You know what it’s like:

the throbbing atmosphere— the gray- blue
                morning. I whistle

your morningsong; I am always
last to stay
                awake,   and always
                                                disappointed.

For I have more of myself                    than I know
                                                what to do with—
                                we never look each other
                                                in the eyes
                when night is youngest, — but
                                                as it ages, I go
                                out with it— extinguish like
                                                                the pulsing body of firefly, the
                like the crescent                                  promise of
                                of the waning moon,                      it’s reappearance,
                                                                  extinguishing.


                               vantage spreads across it
                                                and we become horizon— the quick greenish glow
of an eye, that  sinks into the hollow   of the shoulder 
                        comfortably—  

                I   find  you  every where
                                especially when you are nowhere,

                and this is the precaution;

for if you look another in the eye
for two straight minutes, you might fall in, love

             as though it were the same reflective
pool of loneliness. Our two minutes are collected
                over many years,
many glances;

                intricately gathered
                               as the collective weight of loose change inside your pockets grows;
                each silver dime, one by one 
                                pushed forwards, towards
                the bus fare.
You pick up the large coat
                                by the scruff of the neck, like a mother
                with her young.
                                                like a feeling no longer
                                      wanted.


                When you are no where,
                I   could   find   you   anywhere:

I stay,                   last at the party, and soon          
       enough,   remember you
                as though you are a melody
         that has no beginning and no end. But—
          you see, you are both beginning, and
the end, and that is the price
                         of being tangible.

I say,
     if you knew their stories,
                                there isn’t a soul you
wouldn’t         ,
                                                     love.

 But that is another story. where 

                (in the end,      I stay

                                looking away;    I am) awake, looking into the wide-eyed
                                                                                           eyes of tragedy, I am the insomniac
                                                                as they are lulled to sleep
                                                on either shoulder
                                                and the
                                                                song ends.

--Anna


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