Snapshot 17 March 02010

This room, its comforts, soft
sheets, firm bed, the white
noise machine pretending
to be the sea -- one dog curled
at your feet, the other twitching
with her own nightmares
on her own bed -- ceiling fan
casting dust & air
on the Asian silk carpet.

The bed clothes are obstreperous.
They wrinkle & ball & refuse
to smooth themselves.
The better-than-a-man pillow
isn't. You fall, briefly, & walk
through narrow rainy streets.
Your cloak billows & clings
in all the wrong places.

This wrap, these streets,
this starless rain, all
a clumsy, incompetent lover
sucking & blowing
stalking you into dementia.
You wake. For a moment
you know who you are.
But the rope is cut
& you drift again.

The shutters permit the moon
to leak through. Books
on the shelves whisper,
pass notes back & forth,
each adding a cite, a line
until the final document
is impossible to decipher.

It makes no sense, even
the books don't know
which wrote what word,
what warning, what
admonition. The sea still
waves & washes.

The cat quietly enters,
sits and watches
as cats will do, before
deciding. She will wake you.
She will bring you back
to a bright morning
with clear, sharp boundaries
& obligations. You will
remember who you are.

Comments

[Cia]

I so enjoy your work.

[Fran]

Once again I read and share, the "as cat's do" so true. Today we had the painters in and she hides under the bed tormented and upset because her furniture is all out of place. Thanks Sharon. Fran