And He'll Sleep

Full room,

heavy boxes - emptied.

Small and cramped,

pictures on the

walls, on the

floor, unfinished

works of art,

drawings,

poems, writings, scrawled, unintelligible,

unfinished, unfinished, unfinished!

And his mumbling. God, his

constant mumbling.

Humming. Behind the door.

locked, trapped.

Stuck.

A moment, a

knocking, a

rumbling.

A constant room,

a heavy room -

emptied.

It has tall concrete trees,

mountains, black glass.

This noisy town,

this noisy town.

It has statues from long ago, shining

like moonlight.

And he shaves his head,

his violent head

until it is clean and pure.

He just wants clean, he just wants

pure.

There's makeup and skirts ripped,

long, ankle-length,

statues again, boy/girl

80/20,

music, laughter down the hall.

A silent bedroom,

a pounding on the door,

echoes.

Deep breaths,

deep breaths.

Echoes,

echoes and deep breaths.

It rumbles here,

the echoes, the breaths,

this noise town,

silent.

Blue eyes and

blue sea crash and

explode and

push

against the rocks, the sand.

There's a rumbling,

down below,

cars and drawers,

this monster food, locks, locks, locked.

Opened.

Closed. Unlocked.

Furniture scraping across the wood, the dancers

dance backstage,

in the restaurant,

in the alley,

the church, the pews.

It's the wrong language and

no translator.

It's the car accident, the train crash, plane crash,

shipwreck, ship start.

It's a hand against wood.

It's a gentle sea and

sunlight on

skin.