Wednesday, September 27, 2006

I Have Become Home

During the moments I thought about the days
I was listening to them; they were nearby,
because I was so far into them.
I did a dance to them because I had the right thighs
and spine. I made them go inside because they were mine.
Go inside all those who are mine. I have produced such a change.
Do you remember what played on the rainy station?
Once you came home and asked “how long until we’re there?”
I was never obstinate, nor were my hands, because
I had the mechanism of a person familiar with distractions,
and that allowed me to hammer on the bike.
What I would place over them: my hands.
My weight was there to drag wet with corn oil and sand.
A filter reflected only the yellow light, consequently,
your conclusion was stated with that apt tinge.
I felt dizzy enough to absorb the shock of compensation when
I discovered what had been chipped and crushed in the canvas bag.
I jammed with great frequency on the wooden floor—
it was of wood. It was a miracle of one, so I breathed
from my tube with honey spread on the ring of the high part.
It made the examination of the jam most difficult. One time
I aggravated it when I bumped it inadvertently
while trying to listen to you breathe as you slept. The appearance
of the leather strap made it all the more disturbing.
I was drawn to the fleshy parts of you
that had been dilated with sorrow.
A counterbalance got skewed—I understood and I hammered.


Blogger Elizabeth Colville said...

I often tend to ignore the meaning of words and just listen to their sounds, and I am so impressed with how equally faithful you are to sound and meaning, and how neatly you express a thought. I guess if you looked up "good poet" in the dictionary you might find that description. The beginning of this poem utterly sucked me in and then spat me out just by the nature of it having to end! Kind of like a really surreal prank call by a fine actor!

2:22 PM  

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