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
up
lots of birds today,
every which way
songs behind and in
front of me, indoor
songs and outdoor songs
heard
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
crows.
__
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
Red.
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