Tuesday, February 12, 2008

We Sleep Beneath Birds

I didn’t catch your name.
here I am,
wondering what the point is;

In this perfection
we grow like fingernails
Will we ever stop?
We might be cut or nibble-bitten
or ground down by work.
Yet we become and become
Until we die
and then maybe
we become something else,
then, some more.
I’d buy that book.
Has it been written?
The one that tells us what happens
when we stop becoming.
Some of us think we have
Yes, like death
If you find it I will lay with you
and let you scratch my back
with your fingernails,
while I search for it.
it is an invisible word,
there, not here.
So tonight, without names
We will sleep beneath birds.
Unlike umbrellas, our heads
above our bodies
swallowing glittering tears
before pride’s useless withered hand.
In the face of this
pinnacle of pleasing angles
obscuring our view
of details not meaningless.
As none we are.
As we are.
Hand-tinted as stars met
by ladders that end
twenty feet above the ground.
Your name is a script, illiterate.
On a delta of my hand’s palms
let me gift you
my resistance,
so we meet.


Mike Carson said...

Fantastic work! Do you have any books out? You should. Looks great on my MyYahoo page...myspace is so cluttered, I miss a lot of good stuff. Glad you are here...just started one myself...this looks like a serious blog place for serious people...that you?

Victoria Fotios said...

beautiful stuff Amanda.. all of it here.. it is quieter, is it not?



Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Gorgeous! You make me want to sleep there too.

Claudia Luna said...

My favorite! <3 Your blog is amazing. Visiting now...