Untitled (Colombier)
after Joseph Cornell
My dreams in bare
daylight: an abandoned
dovecote on a pole
in grass. Its vacant
portholes, darkened by
passing clouds, evoke
a retired ocean liner's
cyan view.Paint-flaked apertures
large enough for pigeons—
or scrolls scrawled
with sleep's trinkets
that disintegrate
moments after consciousness
like a gasping swimmer
breaks through.Perched on the peg
when my fog lifts:
that day your beaming face
suddenly appeared
in my real wooden
doorframe,
pulled by the compass
of my thoughts.After the brain casts off
its cryptic eggs,
a fresh slate. This empty
vessel towering
over my morning. I will
fill its sun-flecked holes—
like those once snug,
cooing doves—with
your voice.
