Wednesday, November 13, 2013



No pennies on my eyes this morning. But I slept with these
on my eyelids like bells, like moons, like kisses on the forehead of a bruise,
as I fell through a mist of pharmaceuticals in a cloud of unknowing,
weightless with both my children in my arms like shepherd moons
and tumours. Two poems, two hills, two tombs, listening
to the anapestic trill of my mindstream hair braiding its way
through the woods. And the silence and the silence and the silence
that scans. When I see a skull there’s always a flower in it
and a star that wants to start a constellation in my eyes.

Shaking like an aspen in the rags of its last leaves in a frosty wind
hoping this chassis of a body can live up to its engine. Time
to look under my tongue. So I can tell the morning
how grateful I am to be so warm inside here with everyone
like a cat or a bird or man in the pewter lustre
of another morning on earth. Where did all the flowers
come from? I swear, Gus, I love the way the things of the world
are always getting out of hand. And the silence, and the silence
and the silence that scans.

You can’t imagine how much love there is in my heart
for you right now. All of you, though I’ve known many of you
since I was an upstart. New friends in the schoolyard, all of you.
I’m going to see what my mother packed for lunch.

Love, Patrick

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