At 4am it’s you I seem to miss
You went to emergency today with a pain in your heart. Tests found no cause so you drove to the stars. You photographed a Gould’s fish and sent it my way. A pile of silvery trout with yellow-tinged eyes. Like you, I too know a pain near my heart. Too tired of my skin and so shallow in breath. Mouth open in hope of developing new skills — perhaps just in time to remain in life. Eyes wide and near dry with the shock of it. For us all there’s no knowing at all. That pain that you suffer really is about your heart. (Which I know that you know.)
This too-honest light through such outdated curtains
guides nightmare-wide eyes to the half open robe.
much too much black and some anxious red floral
crowding and wrinkling and escaping from wire.
Scrapping in uniform — some stilted dance
can it be all these items are playing their roles
in some weird narrative inadvertently told?
Perhaps cataloguing some bizarre Freudian slip
of this someone who’s never been known.
upon awakening often
instead of enlightenment
there appears a pit
of items lost in dream stories
(or were they really lost in waking,
like keys and glasses and names?)
and ineffable aches in phantom
limbs which were fine reclining
but now, open-eyed, know nothing
of that sturdy long-lost mislaid youth.
Strapped up like some athlete
who sadly never got a run
but even so misses the play
and especially, now it’s gone,
the promise of a left shoulder
that was never owned but which
feels like was once in possession.
Now’s the ache of the fading bruise
and the itchy weary eyes which
must watch others on familiar fields
play the very same tired old game.