The thin glass of the old window is vibrating with wing
flutter from the snarled nest of Christmas trimming and
dry weed wedged above the frame.
Dutiful comings and goings are transmitting these small
shock waves. Mornings I return to the wadded tangles of
my fears lit by the same light.
It seems as though there ought to be window that opens on,
now, the doves their earnest interrogations. Other birds
their mad warbling and plaintive whistles usher in anxiety.
Sleep is where I fabricate the fables that emerge in furtive
scrapology. Perhaps it is unreasonable to expect remedy
their wispy tissues have only random fears and stray
incidents to work with, a necessarily short attention span.
I never wake to the same water. Every morning its aspect
alters. I have a longing for vast open sea, the sky full of
brilliant stars, scenes from one or more movie memories.
Whale sharks and bio-luminescent creatures making their
lovely arabesques beneath my frail raft of bone,
in the cool syrup of shared chemical composition. What a
shame my infinite nature is only molecular. There are so
many others I would with this consciousness be.
The morning smells like seagull shit and fried eggs. The
morning smells like cedar chips and clove. The morning
smells like sea brine and wild roses.
