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Show -30 Rest Three a. m. My brother on the sofa talking in dream to a bitter wife, a lost child, calico cat curled on his belly, giving back a faint purr to the dark. Memorials, wreaths, sepulchers; inscribed glances, intonations that cut like a palmed razor. We change in mind the imperfect forging of flesh, bad connections, fogged windows; seek the reassurance of other uneasy bodies against our own, mutually propped, tangled like a grove of lodgepoles windbroken at the root. When you're past the choice it's simple: hurts, then it's all gone. Like falling asleep on a battered sofa, talking back to a dream that goes on with death or god or salvation like a cat, curled warm and heavy, giving back a faint purr to the dark. |
