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Alan Botsford-III

 mamaist drops (3)


There are no depths. Appearance is the summary of phenomenae.
— Joseph Brodsky



Sleep has a roundness I

Dwell in

And a soundness I am

Found in

Well and truly on

mornings like this

Did you expect how beautiful it would be

Not to slip away,

But to stay

Even if at times brokenly, reluctantly

On this heart-centered

Path leading you on your way

To the whole

Body of our lived sleep?





this is the inside

that fought like hell to get out

this is the split hair

that won’t go away

this is the way of the w/hole in the heart

like the sky before rain

this is the trial

of the right to be long

sin short, this is the more

of the less I’ll say

slipping the noose of what is known

makes this what it is– the cusp

between before and after

this is the light

of night retreating into day




you come

down here

to mirror what’s


lots of birds today,

every which way

songs behind and in

front of me, indoor

songs and outdoor songs


not on the run but on

foot nonetheless, ever so and

so like a

wish already flown

away, like the crow saying,

“Hey, wait

For me!”

in a sky full today

of other





So help me, then,

As death above

And below drones on…

We all compete

To become a judge,

Or at least for a better

Hotel room.

In the annals of day to day folly

The voices heard rankle

The smoothness of our convictions

Of what is divine

Or sacred

Or just

What we know goes flat

Against a pavement of stone

Unless rain

Can roundly restore

What pours through the heart

Passing for the color