april's fool

out of all the memories,
one of them floated long on the surface
like a piece of bread that the pond ducks wouldn't eat.
it will sink slowly as its white form becomes more
and more bloated until little pieces
start breaking off and floating
back to the surface where
they might be carried
downstream awhile
before sinking.

someday I'll tell you
about the constellations
I keep under my bed.
how they crumble a little more
every night, and how every day
I sweep them up and hold them out
for the wind to eat, and how they feel
like trembling throatcatches in the palm of my hand.

come hold my hand and we'll hold our breath
and pretend we are beached wasps
with saltsea sand stuck in their wings
who don't yet know
why tumbleweeds don't grow by the ocean.

Come, come for the mummer's play!
To dance and play the day away.
See the kings and the queens and the jack of spades.
He'll paint you a picture in a paint that won't fade,
of the harlequin's diamonds and the drumroll parade,
where the swans and their feathers are made out of bells.
He'll act out you your the secrets you never would tell
and pretend that the moon only rose, never fell.
So come, come for the mummer's play!
It's only just come but will soon go away.

Spoiler

I have no idea.

spread across tundra like a drop of paint
and too much water
smeared across paper with my thumb,
like mosquitoes or electrons clouding,
(swarming, biting, exciting the dark)
they are waiting for me,
with their dustpaper bones
and their house of cards.

green cloak
on gray shoulders,
gray smoke
and gray boulders.

dripping wax acts like her fingers,
clasping closed the curtaintops
or opening cans of calico shadow
and tracing faces in the gray.

she makes cat's cradles in her hair
and rocks them soft until they purr,
one two three four, gaily, daily,
iron is patient, marble is more.

one white swan,
one black swallow,
a distant dawn,
in a wooden hollow.

the days are all pregnant with their nights,
another mother in a clocktower bower
who knows she's no more than a nocturne
mouthing the colors down.

in the darkness of the train station,
we moth around the lights
and tell our children
that the eyes of the train are brightest
when they are looking at you.
sometimes they wail
and close their eyes
and cover their ears
so their nightmares don't leak out,
and sometimes they whistle
louder than the trains,
but trains don't whistle anymore;
they only wail, like children
in the darkness after the doors have closed.
and sometimes we rub our hands together
to wipe the cold off,
but cold isn't like coal.
coal can billow off your hands
like streaks of light burnt
in the darkness
by the eyes of the train
that tell the children
that this is all a marionette show behind closed lids.

there once was a boat
that drifted afloat
down the riverway.
the reeds bent back,
littlewhite, littleblack
when the boat floated their way.
we used to think
it never would sink
and noone would take it away.

stealing through the heavy doors
(there there, so they don't bark)
hoping nobody hears the dust
that reaches up
to lick your feet.
hush the quiet until it sleeps
and silentlullaby the dark.
the third stair stirs--
you watch your foot
with darkblinded eyes
until the stairs snore.
upstairs, pet the quiet's knuckles
so its sleepgrip loosens,
drops into your hands
the stillbeating heart
you left here sometimes ago
for the house
to paint it holy.

sleep tight,
birds in flight
leave me
when I wake, or

maybe then
find me when
(we're here
in silver)
it's all the same.

we're here
and clear
ly you are too
with all the pretty

lulla
bye husha
bye; good
bye
.....(goodnight?)

everyday he
in the way he
knows he grows
or somesuch.

and everynight she
stands up bright and
snows a hundred
thousand shades
of abstract.

unreal is

sometimes his,
in temperous veins
and fingers that comb
the sea.

often mine,
in (or not, you know)
the jar without
a lid.

always yours,
in the house beyond
the sound of oceans
unraveling.

you said to hear
what I like for now
(because someday
the sounds might
have to start over)
and your heart
felt wounded and
quivering
like a cello.

there will come a time
when you won't pour rain
on cobbled streets
and watch in gutters
for flower petals;

a time when foghaloed streetlights
bless your wine
and your breath
will break and shatter
even though you don't understand.

and there will come a time
when you will press hollow hands
over your blownglass soul
and claim sanctuary.

there are letters chained to the sun,
but let me tell you, dear,
they don't say anything special.
I can hear them sometimes
when I'm looking for quiet,
and I used to bite my ears not to listen,
but lately I've just been so tired—and darling:
the sky's on fire
(let's go)