Wednesday, October 10, 2007


I also dabble in the macabre!

A friend from high school wrote me
To bridge the years he did not have much to say
Recalled in a modest tone as if I would be unimpressed
A house, a wife, two sons

But I was not unimpressed
And I traded my own story
The very unconventional biography
Those disparate events and dates juxtaposed next to each other

Summoned out of the past
Lined up in rows
They looked around at their strange bedfellows
Ready to return to their historic sleep

To read it perhaps you would allow me a little self indulgence?
Or, perhaps, some respite?
Fastened to the prow of a ship of unfathomable nouns
Leaves little room for self adulation

Write your own biography
And it may explain some things
For me, I no longer question when I feel tired
Or why I sleep as I have not in years

Outside the sky is an unmerciful gray
And the trees give up their children to the earth
Where they, to the last, will rest until an appointed time
While I gather up my own and put them back in place

She is endless, and back to the earth I go again
Into a formidable and fortuitous sleep
And from its depths I wrestle with my dreams
A house, a wife, two sons

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