fixed.

fixed.

the light weight of my thoughts
shuddering bubbles
are too thin to be held
too fragile to press
too much movement to anchor,
my weighed heart
and weightless words
waiting to beat together
like approaching lights
overlapped.
saying sweet dreams. all right.
beautiful. safe.
while my chest keeps me awake
all night
like little fluttering hands.
whispering sorry
when i want you to say the same.
we are close or distant
depending on where i lie
because you are fixed
like with pins
to one space on the bed.


2005.

more past poetry: goldsleep

goldsleep.

emptying your shoes one by one
after walking on the sand;
at the doorstep, before you touch carpet.
we say nothing
where the pauses are not even pauses anymore
yet this morning i was doing a study
of your hair against your forehead
but i was not speaking.
in the morning your eyes
have collected gold sleep;
in the evening we have the same pink eyes
from the same pollen.
then you were a boy in blankets,
then you were two small ears
on either side of your thoughts
and two eyes
that promised openness
this white wet open in your face
then you were all muscles of the same color
moving in the dark.
now you are a vulture.


2006.

more past poetry: idly

idly you touch me
some people speak too loudly
my place is peaceful,
i do not have an ice maker
that gasps in the night from snoring.
i do not like your simplicity
unmoved by the film, unmoved by me
that makes me into:
excitable, untrusting, exaggerative.
you do not like me like that either.


2006.