For *those that have just lost their keys *those that are well-versed *inebriated ones *wanderers *mermaids *those that belong elsewhere *whippersnappers *marvelous ones *those that are not included in this classification *those that flutter because the moment is fleeting *boundless ones *those colored with slippery fingerpaint *others *those that resemble someone I know from a distance

Friday, June 09, 2006

new constellation

I want to make a new constellation
fashioning stars from rusted pocket watches and kindergarteners' art projects
old library cards and cats' stares
the shape of our hands while we sleep
the smell of pecan trees
my first thoughts upon waking
the color of your beard
train whistles, snail shells, and the tiredness of old men
the sounds that slip from us during sex
secret gardens and crushed wisdom teeth
the space above your collarbone
timelines
disappearing magic
all the tiny things that slip away
and the crinkles at the corner of your eyes

we can give each star its own gravity and spin
spend sunday afternoons lazily naming our favorites
and then pin it in my hair
or rest it on your pillow
or place it in the stillest part of me
where its orbits will carve spirals on my spine
and my veins will become entangled with its meteors
until eventually my movement, my pulse
will depend upon its nightfalls

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1 Comments:

Blogger David said...

I am purplecrayon at austin dot rr dot com; who are you? You are the one who thinks she is crazy on my telephone and on my bed, who thinks about what it means to be human, and time, and spirit. You aren't reading Proust, but you remember something. You pick up washers from the sidewalk, and radio stations play for us the music that you love. You should know better than to summon me like that; I can only tell you what you already know: people who feel alone act like people who are hungry. They uproot the plants before they are grown, they think only of themselves, they find connection and hoard it in the hollows of trees, in cellar jars, and in words scribbled on orange paper. Scraps of meaning are gobbled up like petit-fours, and we all want something we can't have, but I just want a friend, not a game to play, even though, no matter what happens, Wendy Leigh won at Jenga.

1:49 AM

 

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