les pauvres cœurs


Thursday, January 20, 2011

The Funeral, Part II

We lie unguarded
awake and torn apart
back to back
under unrelenting starshine
all to do is close our eyes.

I am not an imaginate,
though I may be a figment;
when I was young I thought
I might grow up to be a fire truck
now I am young,
I want to be a real boy
so I raise a wooden gesture
and soldier on.

Forearm to table
forehead to forearm
you exhausted me with possibilities -
you dreamed while I slept.

Rolling over in sunlight -
I seem to remember August, green,
but awake it is January, gray gray gray.
Sleep! Sleep no more!
Honor Darling shall sleep no more.

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