01 February 2010

Dream on a Castro Convertible Sofa

slicing the bread and
scratching out the bills, passing
this time whilst I wait

and cartooned forms caper in
technicolor, the demarcations of
their inky lines melting as she
drifts into sleep

rows of frocks, flowered, striped,
the dark hallway of doors, metal-heavy,
pushed open to reveal a snowy
scene, a road forked, and,
beyond it, a graveyard, the
stones like so many grey teeth
upended, growing up from the earth

and he, and she, are without
their coats in this cold, confused now,
searching for the lost child
run far afield from them, he is young,
and fast, the spring in his step
the sweetest mechanism you'll see
in a month of Sundays

she lies, now, on the floral
plain of a Castro convertible
wondering, wondering, where her boy
may be

then wakes, to the blackdawn and
another day

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