Tell me about the dream
where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
The eye stretches to the horizon and then must continue up.
Anything past the horizon
it can only be imagined.
You want to see the future but
you only see the sky and no one could sleep.
Looking back is easy for a while and then looking back gets
There is the road, and there is the story of where the road goes,
and then more road,
the roar of the freeway, the roar of the city sheening across the city.
It's more like a song on a policeman's radio.
And the days
were bright red.
He was not dead yet, not exactly —
parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting
for something to happen,
something grand, but it isn't
always about me,
he keeps saying,
though he's talking about the only heart he knows —
just slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane.
He could build a city. Has a certain capacity.
That means it's noon, that means
There's a niche in his chest
where a heart would fit perfectly
and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place —
well then, game over.
You wonder what he's thinking when he shivers like that.
What can you tell me,
what could you possibly
Sure, it's good to feel things, and if it hurts,
we're doing it to ourselves,
or so the saying goes, but there should be
a different music here. There should be just one safe place
in the world.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.
And I don't like the way the song goes.
You keep singing along to that song I hate.