Monday, April 13, 2009

When You Sleep I Stare at Your Eyelids

I want you close like when
you turn up the volume louder and louder until 
you cringe but
it’s not enough so you press the headphones deeper until 
you hurt but 
it’s still not enough because you just want it inside you
inside your head
inside your heart 
in your belly in your hands in your feet 

I want to see you like 
when you read a book all about someone’s life and 
they seemed to know 
just what to do at every turn I know I don’t
but it doesn’t matter 
because isn’t it wonderful that someone lived loved
if they’re gone now
that doesn’t matter 
because I will watch you peel potatoes put on socks blink and
I don’t know much but
we will hold hands when the sun explodes 

I want to feel you like 
a painting when you look at the woman’s face 
and the colors and the lines 
and the soft palet ridges
they mix and blur and you can’t touch it because 
the sign says 
and because you can’t
it was another time another place
maybe the artist 
made love with the model 
every dust-filtered afternoon, but he was bothered 
he couldn’t paint the little lines in her eyes 
just right I’ve tried 
to draw you your eyes your eyes
but I couldn’t get it right.

(A revision of this prose poem).

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