Posts Tagged ‘Neil Gaiman’

In a life divided like the strike,
split of maul through log
into mine, yours,
we’re jealous with anything ours –

with the Christmas tree and its ornaments
made and bought for our first together,
filled out by old trinketry still “mine,”
swept in the jingle-bell skirt from my first one alone –

and a blue volume signed to the both of us,
not two hundred pages but six months to read,
ferried nine hundred miles for weekend installments,
chapters sequestered from day work,

from far away, from the tears
by the doorway for passengers only,
pages hoarded like firefly moments
caught in a jar on the mantle, lid

punched through and banded, little lights
dancing but fading by morning.
Our book was signed in the summer,
but the New Year has turned

once we reach the last chapters
on a morning that ends nearly three weeks together
as not far away its author relishes
two extra nights in a near-empty house

that brace one end of a stretch of apart-from-her.
My eyes brine at the bottom of page 160,
voice cracks like creak of a stuck basement door,
and you ask me whether I want you to finish.

You carry us all the way through,
even the thank-yous we don’t have to read,
as I wish for the comfort of mothers,
wait for the ocean to cast us both home.

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June 22, 2013, 30 Minutes Before Doors

The writer’s line begins
as a rule at the stairs
to the doorway, bound
by walk and brick, sideless

sandals toeing at an edged green.
But beyond the building’s
final angle, at the End of the Lane,
it sidles like an eel out

from the coral, like an uncertainty of ants
bearing flecks of wood in an evasion
stretching like unraveling rope
from tree to tree, shade to shade.

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Unmended when first I read “Sandman,”
through light and books an anguish to excise,
girded in a cowl and shield of afghan

I dowsed the shuttered memory of a man
left – in his own flight from radula eyes –
unmended. When first I read “Sandman,”

bare feet pressed sharp scales, primed to shut the span
between the blue and green – anesthetize
and gird. With a cowl and shield of afghan,

I’d turn my fall to flight, in marzipan
drawn out from almond, sculpt out how to rise
and when. Unmended, I first read “Sandman”

with a shadow never still, sense entranced
by light and book. A goldfish-hope implies
that, girded by a cowl and shield of afghan,

I might subsume delight, soar out again
with stitch and gauge precise and harmonized,
ungirded in a cowl and shield of afghan,
and mended past the time I read “Sandman.”

Liner note

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