old poems
she said,
go read this poet
and that one
and maybe the other one
over there
blow off the dust
and crack the old pages
i follow footprints
atop floorboards
went up old stairs
pull the string
that ignites an exposed bulb
the room
bright and dim
at the same time
shadows move
and i wait
perhaps spring will
share a better story
perhaps my lies
will not linger as long
i breathe in the smell
of dirt and mold
and old words that rot
between pages
i read this poet
and that poet
and the other one
over there
the door handle rattles
but when i check
down the hall
nothing lingers
except
a cold damp breeze dancing
through
open windows
# # #
come
they come in spirts
across fresh linen,
faster and faster,
each one unique,
each original
but anchored
in tithing memory.
some days they come
quick, without reflection,
consideration, or spell check.
some days they hide
deep in the flesh, timid
and shy, flaccid and cold.
no mouth to breathe
life onto a shriveled
vessel.
and some days they don’t
come
at all.
it is not worth the effort,
not even a pill could
get you to where
you want to be.
but when they
come
fluid and sloppy
across the page,
swimming with
life, there is
nothing better.
when they
come.
