My Old Bedroom

My old bedroom, a rotten apple,
a museum for clouds, a long knife
made of torn cotton, an empty bus,
a Godless chapel.
My old bedroom, a door with no lock.
The window with a screen to keep out
monsters. A bed for nightmares.
A voice that cackles.
My old bedroom. Posters on the walls:
Wheels, cartoons, and words. On the floor, toys,
books, and pages of poems.
My soul in shackles.

Air

One day you may touch what's wrong.
I've wrung my dreams out in verse.
Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip.
Grip strip trip—I saw a soul inside a hearse
singing of seasons past, a silent song.
Sat up, sweat pouring, gasping for air.
Sylvia, many a night, I've touched what's wrong
but woke grasping only the silvery air.

Some Nights I Fear Going to Sleep

I don't recall my dreams, at least
not the narrative: Saw a priest
wearing a cape, fluorescent green,
and warning me that West's now East.

Another dream: A vile disease;
it kills none but weakens the knees,
so people crawl along the streets
and weep sometimes and hug the trees.

Some nights I fear going to sleep;
stay up for hours just counting sheep.
My day's odd but I make it mean.
At night meaningless terrors creep. 

I die, until the subsequent morn.

Deeply thankful
for the curved edge
of countertops,
coffeemakers
than those stovetop
kettles, homeworks
done, keys in place.
I’m the morning
rush: mismatched socks,
chewing fast, tense,
skimming the news,
checking the watch,
anguished rocking,
forgotten lunch...
and then I’m gone.
Silence. Silence.
The sun star throws a ring of saffron light
that cradles every heart and calms each soul.
At night, people return and later rest.
 I die, until the subsequent morn.