Words for Saturday morning
i wake up ill, but it passes. inside, everything is still:
canvasses cling to the walls. sharp pink flowers in a glass vase sway.
you think i can’t hear you but i know you’re home,
and it’s cold and you’re sitting in the dark. scream to the world
long enough and you’ll be heard. it doesn’t mean i have any words
to give you, or can bend this light so many thousand miles
into your bedroom, or would even want to, even though i do.
regardless, i know you
well enough by now to understand you could use a piece of
this white heat, this black earth, this collossal sky full
of our disgarded thoughts and a few yellow birds.
on a lump of cooled lava i’m feeling a perfect salt breeze
that is mine alone. there will be time to share some warmth - in clouds, in snow -
when i get home.