THE JOURNEY:

November 3, 2019  (Btw, the poem is not finished, I think.) 

Order is just the shirt of chaos turned inside out.

The sky sobs.

On the table, an empty bowl hugs itself.

Have I dreamt? How long?

Teenagers dream a street, swathed in sex/screens/silence/songs.

Does my mind’s terrible wheel,

Grinding on so long, so long,

All the way

That’s been a lost way so long.

Is the road low?

Are there birds? (Angels who didn’t make it?)

The sky’s sobbing rain plops on the bed of bright leaves

Bright as inspiration’s slippery wing

New as an angel sighing through my window: for a moment, elusive, it buoys the earth,

tilts its flight through me light as a breath unbreathed, torturing ecstasy into engraved bracelets at the September fair.

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