Bedside

There are five poetry books on my nightstand table. Two are independent publications, the kind I think of myself as liking. One is a book of poems by an author I admire for a single poem. Another is a book of "erotic" poems that bore. The book I turn to night after night while the others collect dust are the words of Tomas Transtromer.

Night Nothings

One cloud passing
My kitchen window
I stand getting water
Midnight black April eve
Passing thoughts ribbon
Through still irises
Seeing tomorrows
Their smiling promises
That lie beneath
Sleeping souls

Restless for a moment
A feeling affirming yes
This cup you hold is real
Tonight is the night

random thought #864

We are all obsessive creature beasts at heart doing the same things over and over again.

subconsciously

Feather-like depths of the heart
Like sticky steps
Shoes and feet get stuck
In the act of stepping

Burr-like memories bristle
Hooking consciousness

Surfaces

tonight we made a decision
not to go anywhere
for now