eyes not open
release the half-forgotten songs,
the directions to places you don't wish to return to,
the news of the day in Cleveland, or Ulan Bator,
the names of the vice presidents under
Rutherford Hayes. Let him go,
lord, back to Ohio to his ornate crypt.
A memory of poetry, a line in someone else's
meter. A Bo Diddley beat.
You wake to the sounds of rain,
a taste of lightning.
Close your eyes & yet remain awake.
This is when Kafka
was visited by a gigantic insect.
This is when the closet called
for the poet & she answered.
Find enough momentum to rise?
To fumble a light
tumble from the bed into dark.
Or wait this out.
Might be a three day rain.
The trees sigh at the wind.
Sluice and spatter in the gutters.
That thrum could be rain, could be
the echo of your pulse.
Be glad you are not
an eyeless wriggle
in the old dirt of recollection
afraid it’s going to drown.