poem

untitled, casimms


quiet drifts in and out of rooms,
an afterthought. __sometimes anyway.
__(like after it rains, puddles we skirt around)

leaves behind little signs, you knew it was there, you can tell -
half empty cups of tea, maybe rum,
hardened tissues,
brake-lights are on an awful long time;
the real fossils are the movements in the darkness,
__snores or sighs or the taptaps of unsatisfied men on the internet at 3am


___*___*___*

i cannot taste the taste of my own dreams,
or unbraid them (
if they even exist )
__and i'm wordless,
__i can't spare a description
__only that the autumn leaf knows perfectly well what it means to dream,
___and have dreams
___and to be a dream ,

otherwise tomorrow is just tomorrow,
an alarm clocked interlude
between flotsam and piano melodies on the radio
while we wait for white fingers or candy red sportscars to play life-raft

otherwise tomorrow is just tomorrow,
adrift.
parenthesis to footnote.


*___*___*

the sadness is
that it is what it is,
our disabled younger sisters and strange older brothers who
won't come out their rooms,
our parents' most recent divorce,
__(we, first hearing about it midway through our fourth consecutive Redbull,
__breathing so deeply someone asks if we're still trapped in the swimming pool,
__and smiling, we answer only the blue parts)

is what it is,
i walk in through the door and can't tell if i've come home or left it.
or lost it, or if i just never had it.


*___*___*

life must be soo much such a large thing.
soo large that it takes soo many of our chests, and hot-air balloons
and pacific oceans to fill it out and give it shape.

and yet, the wars we fight are for the stain of a woman's lipstick on our cheeks,
or a sleep with no dreams -
silence and some colour to dye it in.


and like all things to do with life,

as far as i can tell,

there's nothing that can be ended

this here poem being its own ghost.

and an echo of this evening's shadow cast on whichever of my tomorrow's shows up in the morning.