Between

 

Between

 

It could be

That I am actually stupid

Not capable of urbanizing

I have too many bits of colored

Cloth in the closet

Settling in

Waiting to be needled

I dream

And it always draws a setting

From a countryside landscape

A place where my breathing

Is less managed

And ohm is a hiccupped space

Between a sneeze and a cough

Either is easily blessed

And passed on its way

I remember the soil

Its strange cloying press against my skin

Whispering stories

Yes, you have been here before

And here you will yet be again

I hear the lisp of hummingbird wings

And the strange slurp-whistle of dragonflies

They used to hover over the pond

Way past the property line

 

It could be

That I am actually stupid

Incapable of being pasteurized fully

I have too many strange photographs

And books whose authors have been forgotten

Long names, foreign identities

I dream between taxi rides

And I walk bridges in Budapest

Looking up at the trilling cable lines

My breathing is soot streak-history rocked

Less than manageable

In one full gulp

These are ancestors, progress and penitence

Always mortgaged to the hilt

I remember the concrete

Its strange rough texture regardless of weather

Whispering stories

Yes, you have been here before

And no doubt, will come here again

I hear the purge of the five o’oclock rushing about

Draining again, and the splinters of the climbed ladder

Breaking under my skin

Way past any property line