the moment when the light
begins to dissolve the night.
that is the poem.
part of the poem. but really
it's everything. the whole world
is the poet and the poem
singing it's miracle and lament.
the room is perfumed with incense.
your conscience is clean.
as though through magnetic force
the river pulls you
with the liquid silver motion
of it's cold cold water
to cool your own molten feelings
pulsing strong. rippling out in waves.
and try as they might they cant
seem to muffle the resonance
with their indifferent faces
whose emptiness can be read
like the books that pave your floor.
this is the time of year
where even the birds have left.
fitting really. both you
(who is him) and
your absence eclipse the rest.
even the stars still do their twinkling
between the comforting glare
of the street lights.
there's a significant lack of elbow room
in these shallow graves
decorated with bloody teeth.
yet you feel a hand,
your own, reaching through
the bones of your chest. the cage of ribs.
pulling yourself out...