now let's see,
can i sleep you off this time,
can
i shut the drawer softly
where the scented fleece of a button-down lies?
your figure
in the shadows,
slipping in on distantly alaskan wind.
or perhaps a cup of water
much much clearer
than my head.
can i wash you off this time,
(and leave you,
a dark acrylic residue)
in the bottom of the glass that stands
beside my aching bed?
on canvases,
the color of a lover's skin
are caveats
of the oil-based stain-memories within.
so now my fingers seek
the keys and pencils.
shall i work you off this time
by moonlight,
tracing circles on the walls,
the balcony
pennies, nickels, dimes.
(or are they supposed to be
needlepoint,
threadbare eyes?)
well
now i've done it, and
my palms are full of fleece
my lungs are turgid with the forest in my hands.
mountains in the creases,
valleys sipping (lowered heads)
in the multicolored fleeces.
you
are burrowed quiet-like, standing-soldier in my sleep,
you
belong in faucets, sinks, and gutters, in their muddied chorus, breathing,
you
would fall piece by piece like pocket-dweller coins
into my hands,
remember? me,
i do.
this is how we fell
(asleep):
you-
only half-empty cups
and circles incomplete.
me-
a weeping pair of hands
and moaning-fitful feet.
///
