Sunday, April 12, 2009


There are some days when
oh what is that word?
when the travel is by candlelight
in broad daylight when
lotions containing amber
and sandalwood envelop us
in the memory pit.
In the morning I think of gardens and the things
buried there. Such and such a riddle
a note in a mason jar: help me I'm not free
yet of what pains me now when you find
this I will be studying rivers in Alaska
or hanging in a work shed
all the dollars
are signs all the days pass and they are dirty
to me. But still blueberries and toast with
coconut oil spread on top, raw honey I swear
things are alive in this apartment other
than the mail I get for the guy who died here
who loved here before me I walk the same
route from the bedroom to the bathroom
and sit on the same toilet
and stare into the same mirror when I shave
it's like that and nothing else it just is
so back to morning: so much to say
the way light plays on blooms, the way
the radio sounds in the next room,
the way I'm just glad to be awake
in the springtime of my decline.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

"Perfect" is an understatement.
Just so you know, totally objectively, this is the most extraordianry poem you have ever written.

9:46 AM  
Blogger joanna said...

I really like this poem, TC.

8:21 PM  
Blogger Maggie May said...

the last two lines are fiERCE.

i also think of gardens and things buried there in the mornings.

2:51 PM  

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