Tagged: awake

i don’t know, from day

i don’t know, from day
to day, what kind of world we
will be waking up

in. you asked does it matter?
it has always been this way


i love you more

i love you more
than the chicken noodle
soup you made from
scratch last night when
i insisted on soup,
more than the carbon
monoxide alarm you
bought when you accepted
we could be dying, more
than all the kisses at
the threshold of departures
and arrivals, more than
b-flat minor, fingers
in a good book, toes
cooling in the washington
square park fountain,
i love you more than
writing about you when
you are asleep, yes,
still more

and so it is, i

and so it is, i
am once again
over- and under-
thinking things like
you without a primer,
over- and under-
sensing the range for
exploration, the
extent to which
we can still
over- and under-
flexing the muscle
that gets me most
in trouble

on the edge of daylight

on the edge of daylight
saving, i am mostly
awake, lodged in
the trilateration of
past, present, and
future, in search
of a fourth
time. i experiment
with pouring tea – a cup
in present-past is at once
cooler than a cup in
present-future. i
experiment with the
newly nesting thoughts
of you – and arrive
and arrive again at
unknown coordinates

after i

after i
fuckin’ hate you,
you are the
, there is only
storming out, even
when it is well
past midnight, below
freezing outside,
and you have
woken up the neighbors
again, but it’s no
one’s business
to save you

it is getting to

it is getting to
the point that we are waking
up more often than

not, having slept wrong, there is an
unidentifiable ache

if i had my way with

if i had my way with
delta waves, and there
were a catalogue to
dreaming, i would
run a slippery finger
down the thumb index
to find the letters to
your initials – perhaps
they would be rubbed
off with devotion –
skim down the
pages, pick one before
i get too
involved or over-
whelmed with the
selection, and lie
down to dream.

or perhaps the letters
would be crisp,
untouched, the pages
never exposed to
light, a volume
of deferred
because resisting
is always more

on day fifty-three, only
my waking thoughts
go there, caress
the spine of unknown
volumes, controlling
the impulse to ask
for at least one dream