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Bob Hicok.jpg (1409 bytes)

 

 

A sky looked at too long

 

Perhaps if you don't dream anymore I could stop
being a duck in part of my life on a lake
of symbolism. I shouldn't wake up wet and tired
from swimming backward toward a shore of teeth
and how you float or have tubas for hands is not
my mother issue.

It's true I want mine to be stronger,
to bench press my father out of her choices
and go to a movie if she wants to
or have people over with their talking
and flaking skin more often for tea
in the rose-petal-thin cups.

There was a period when I was soothed by opening
the glass case and holding the cups to my face
and thinking the movement of my atoms alone
could shatter them like a sky looked at
too long by people of violent intent.
When nothing went wrong, the moment
seemed healed and round like a womb
is out there, making all the seconds happen.

You don't know it yet but when you wake up
I'll still exist.

Sometimes I stand beside you and wave
at your head, I sense you're flying
and I want you to feel my hand against your eyes,
so tall and brown and in the air.

There's that phase of morning when your mind
is pouring back into itself, you make me think
of a shirt on the floor before the fullness
of arms or a violin in a movie
run over by a car before the film's
sent backward and the violin
heals into music. And there you are
and I am and usually some kind of bird
is making noise in a tree no one planted
and yet it's there, lending shade to grass
that's trying to make the whole world softer
and you tell me a dream that always ends,
and then I don't know what happened.

 

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