There are days I can understand
why you would want to board
broad back of some ship

I am learning how to sleep
                  again, to love
the descent, or is it,

lying here, a rising up
                  to summit
where sleep wanders

They come in many sizes—small and faint, loud and 
thunderous. And it’s a problem, what to do with them,
they won’t rise up to heaven where ears have the power

It’s a strange place
                 to try & find
God—inside

Memory brings us back to such a place—
the rows of photinia, each leaf a red flame
(blood-tinged, almost) violent in sunlight,

In a dim room above the freightyards, next to an old brass bed, an angel is taking off his wings. He winces a little as he eases the straps that run down into his chest: the beat of the wings is the beat of the heart.

Is my dress appropriate?
Is my breath still fresh?
Will my underarms fail me?

I have the last pack of cigarettes in the world; but no matches. I am in the bedroom, which has an enormous window, so I have to keep my body between the cigarettes and the window. Everybody is in the other room with the matches. I try to think of some disguised way of asking for matches without giving away my secret.

 A man rents two bears. One of the bears wears a little blue fez; on his vest is his name: ‘Bruno.’ The other bear wears a red fez. His vest says ‘Hugo.’ The man takes the bears home with him.

Like two horses
we bolted toward the limits of the earth.
Then fell