Monday, March 5, 2012
That plaintive cry, asphodel, that greeny flower, a hotel in Hartford, the seventh floor and when I opened the door, my hair wet the years began. We fell through woods and into a musty theater, the skinny boy in the chicken house screamed and I woke up in the bathtub of a motel, the water falling your arm smooth and hairless, a Cheshire cat smile, the open road, paper-thin letters, onanistic and back to the north, our bed a swaying single boat with oars that rested still
Standing by the well,
wishing for the rain,
Reaching to the clouds,
For nothing else remains.
Drifting in a daze when evening will be done
Try looking through a haze
At an empty house in the cold, cold sun
I will wait until it all goes round,
With you in sight the lost are found.