I’m looking for autumn, written listening to Bob Dylan, I’m thinking about callousness, some restless lingering in this cold shop, of metal, of stones, but I’m looking out for the sensual, I’m looking for the simple, repeating, repeating, to my shaking bones
I am letting me go, as I heave my feet, unlaced, to lay down
the knobbly stilts holding up that show, as I read the news,
ticket sales: tipped for smaller heels, ones I had, but
they’re all tied up now, not like back, or over there,
over these tight, clenched toes, and it is wake, and it is sleep,
and I’ll forget my rose,
like it is sunset once more, as I grow chilly,
I am cold, this heart afraid, of late,
a rag doll, head leant on the kitchen counter,
the recipes, the was, gone, all crumpled, old, now
I’m only sitting, sold,
on the floor, but passing, I’m passing time,
not by plane, or by first car,
only feet, two feet, ticking, round, again, but never
turning, to keep, count, ask, when was the last?
when did I have more than some new
to hold? in my sleep, I got frail,
but I never stopped to hold, I only stopped to
cough up the rainbow, and the gold,
and mum I hear you say, what I’ve heard,
through my fraying hair,
between my toes, and I might feel low, but
look at me, really, I am up, I am there, top shelf, very at
the top, of a landslide, the dusty of your loft, of your head,
because I’ve lived, and I know,
I know the days are slipping by, the days,
lost, the ones we traded for better clothes, or replaced, like
dots and lines in the sand, washed by tide, by night, by the moon,
in her light, round her cradle, in her eye,
as she wanes, my slick crescent, but she will flick this daze,
rippling like water, like the heart and the anger, and the hurt, but
don’t tread water, you’re too far back now, lost at sea, ‘o the waves,
the ones we threw into the sky, the drops were getting bigger,
like the little feet and little hands, when it didn’t matter
where we had to go, before the grass, but I look, for the bits,
the bits off script, the holes I can’t find,
the holes we didn’t have to patch ourselves, in the
net where the little fish knew to swim, in the water I can’t hold,
but maybe this is age,
maybe I am slipping,
maybe it’ll go away,
this cloud I bring, she’s laughing,
that I am too light, and I must take it in good grace,
I thank you, god, with a small g,
for what I am receiving, for what I hoped I would, but
never did, might never will, is that your will? I pray, even for
those days I never could, and I might not sleep,
but I’ll pray today, for some will, for some peace, some kind,
well, I don’t know if I should find mine,
but I want to kiss how I used to sleep,
like a child flying through the night, through the window,
through the cake, in the days
we were just stabbing in the dark, the ones no one knew sharp,
sandy eyelids in the candles,
wishing for sharper bones, or to be that passing car,
where bliss would exist, or the concrete lift going up to go back,
down, until that someday, when tiny people will live in it,
in the little boxes I dreamt in, and
dreamt out of but did belong, in the noon I dreamed
of happiness, but now I hug my knees in bed for enough, for a wink,
for a nap, for a cat, to be liked, for enough, and nothing but,
because enough gets, she gets, and there is none left, like every month,
like this month, ‘cept the open can, of beans rotting in the fridge,
it’s all coming, and I know I should be used to this, this
too much, too slow, but every pillow,
my bones ache to grow, under some new skin,
in some new day, of joy, of hope, of more, more,
the beans, there’s too much sauce, too much sweet,
but too little happiness, too little soft, ‘o
this month has given me more wishes, and I rattle pennies,
to waste, on nights sitting in wells, but now I
bite my tongue because now I’ve lost taste I’m losing touch,
and god, I hum that I’m ready for the silence, for the
closed doors, ’cause I know the dust is all in my mouth, dumb, but at night,
the faint flame in me burns to the black and throws my last plea,
ever weakly, for more
of this
