|Apr/May 2008 Poetry|
Ghazal of Lost Sleep
A camera scans streets as floods recede.
On TV, slate rooftops emerge for hours.
I right the knocked bottle before the splash,
but my doubts waver on the verge for hours.
Like holding a telescope to the bones—
the cat's purr, murmuring a dirge for hours.
At two, I trace the lamp from base to switch,
wide awake, flirting with an urge for hours.
From a cigarette, smoke flows like a voice.
Not spoken, words circle and surge for hours.
To revive the blooms of cut hydrangeas,
I lay them in a tub, submerge for hours.
and that prattle is gone
and the tinkering around the kitchen.
and her mynah bird's gone
and the Lucky Strikes and newspapers.
and the bare feet are gone
and the rosebud apron
is gone, all gone.