9:30 p.m. - 2008-09-08
-

Donald R. Anderson

By the candle light,
glow of iridescent neon from the window,
I hear the beat of your heart.
A paper heart, shown through like
a half glass bobble,
with papyrus parched up with old tape.
It rests like sweet transcendence,
the meditation of the sleeping mind.
The air cool like a brush of feather.
Soft cotton rubs against the belly,
stretching one reaches for the air,
stretching a thought like the words
across a poem from some muse beyond death,
before life.
Busted by a practical nose,
I sense the morning dew as the window
brings chirps of morning and sprinklers
rattle full and spray mists,
shaking and tasting the claws and
beaks searching for beetles among
decaying fall leaves and live bark.
And the neighbor dog never sleeps.
Cars growl and ponder the meaning of
the streets upon tires in half-light.
The streets themselves, they roll out
like the arms of a rising me,
rising with half opened eyes
and a heavy sense of purpose,
a heavy sense of the past.
A heavy sense of the past.

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