A face in the public domain
Slow Waking
Like lying at the verge of the
green-gray Atlantic, oh, seven,
eight years old, trailing over
the lip of the continent, swaddled
in the lap of warm sand. Or as if
I'm so small a giant hand holds me
lightly against the dawn hum
of the recomposing self. Or like
huddling knees to skinny chest
beneath some overhang while
all around a humid dripping,
a rich, a vegetative mist rises
in the velvet dark.Then
this waking. A world mildewed,
sour rot, the future. Offer up
a coin to the dream-gods.
Strike a bargain. Promise
to light a candle, make sacrifice,
do every little favor for them,
anything so they ferry me back
in their veiled craft, deep, and
far enough under again.
