Saturday, February 15, 2014

The Bones Of Night

Images are not numbers. Freud
tried translating them. They are
notes towards themselves.

A walled city represents its own
interests. I want to go in
but I don't trust -- its symbol

is the horse, no, an upended
flask of water. I've been there
once creaking like an old door.

Soundly to venture forward
into desire. This film
I think I've seen, but it changes

memory. I dream an entire
film. A recurring dream. Always,
I am some actor, falling into trees.

My mind churns up such thoughts
to bother me on weekends.
Distract me towards the sea, or

to you. My mind on the whole
has betrayed me. Love is strong.
Sunny villas, much running water.

The grasses hush together
in greenness. This stolen city means
so little. I will write it flawed and beautiful.