as the light falls again,
down to a table where my hands
slice apples in a split patch of sun.
Up late reading, still half-possessed
by that last dream. Feel more
ghost than body, a shade in flannel,
need to eat and prove I'm here.
Oranges on the cutting board,
fruit cup or juice, I can't decide.
Drawer, pit, kiwi, bowl -- the kitchen's
endless interiors, each thought
consuming the next vague
vagary, morning wrapped
in chill skin. Bananas
vulnerable as my sleep,
an easy disembodiment --
two hours prone
echoing the body's last ellipsis,
day a nightlight
for the deeper seeded dark.
Summation is Handy at the End
The beach at sunset,
clouds a cherry staccato
above philosophical lifeguards
who describe the mind as a painted
interior that never dries, the body
a brief run of diffusing parts.
I pack up the cooler,
another holographic item
in a world where objects slip
through any number of holds,
the day's tangibility
fading to abstraction, everything
harder to pin down.
I'm driving home in a car I can't trust,
thinking how people like their
summing up, an easy comfort,
something to carry, to sleep on --
my daydreams are a hundred
short stories, my sleep a diary
whose pages brave deeper levels.
And my guess is that death
is a tunnel of love
in mole-dark trappings,
a re-mix deflecting old haunts.
Years spent gathering details
and I finally realize, in a tender pink nutshell:
life is a tune-up, a virtual shore.