Wednesday, January 17, 2007
There's a coyote outside my window
in my dreams. She howls all night
at the midnight moon blue and creamy.
She sings and stutters
with a flamenco heartbeat
and warns me of the wiles
of beautiful women.
At dawn she lays at the foot of my bed
waiting for me to wake,
looking at my face with wishful, longing eyes.
there is that in between space again;
another, it is something you are so acutely aware
of and at the same time feels like
it is the relative you have never met
at a funeral
so you aren't quite sure how to act.
it moves, the scene that is;
it moves and in the motion;
in the blurs;
you see faces that don't quite make sense to you.
it is as if they were relatives
or could have been relatives.
it is in the way they look at you;
and then they pass by like a sparrow
looking for that little seed stuck in the rail tracks
that she can't get freed...
then it comes.
then it comes like a gentle,
seducing surge of a wave;
not quite a wave,
not quite the surge of a large swell,
but it feels like something that materialized
and grew and grew
and got bigger
and then became your skin.
it suddenly became your thin little membrane
between you and the rest of the world.
and that space suddenly became something different.
it was not a space anymore
it became the emotion that keeps you breathing.