Sunday, July 8, 2012

Poetic Relief


BEADS

The dream of a Coltrane solo
accompanies this evening
too wet for saxophones,
lines my ears
with the soft noise of a record
before the music comes.

Manhattan is touched
by a tropical wand;
Through curtained windows
I see the crumpled mirage of you.

Sleep a troubled memory,
my bed a factory,
I string each hour like a bead
on a night necklace.
This is what blind women did
to mark the hours
until someone comes to love them.

When the city is blackdark
I walk through Bermuda air so heavy
the occasional raindrop fights
for breathspace.
Puddle-vapors
suffocate in asphalt clouds
of Apocalypse 
in Central Park.

A silhouette
waddles across the Transverse
in the mist,
hesitates for a second
with my scent.
We exchange fear, his 
leafy dark primordial spell

Quivery and damp
I return to my kitchen
where all  ingredients
smell of desire,
where I will knead and press things.
From my oven I take out
my dark work:
eight beads—sweet
and unbearably fragile--
like papier mache, like berries,
one by one they slide with a prick
onto this rosary  
and pray
for sleep’s blind relief.

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