I would have woken you with
ceremony
saltglaze mug treading water beneath your
still mouth, the smell of coffee jaywalking
through your lightest sleep
flicker of song from my beak,
my hum, a hushed conduction of thanks
{what is the opposite of lullaby?}
for the few remaining seconds
perching, this side of dawn
and the split atom of my kiss.
If you hadn’t stirred,
the mug would have lowered
{small patch of floor, wreathed by ties, quarter-poems,
and postcards}
and I would have begun
my voodoo
the bridge of my nose, a steady press of thought
tracing your floodfield neck,
I am the scarecrow your dreamself wanders past
my jasperflesh fingers, an anthem pushed
between each rib,
the shape of me you drifted from
towards the fog of sleep last night, now
mulberry hills, treeforts,
the glittering roar of Henrys, Carols, Clarks,
imagining, imagining
my final pin
my own chest, my winding ivy
my followlit wrists, my giving hue
my silver cage, open, in the attic
on the porchswing
in the endless narrow
that sparked
the day you were born.
CarnivalDark 