When my body had forgotten its purpose,
when it just hung off my brainstem like a whipped mule.
When my hands only wrote. When my teeth only ate.
When my ass sat, my eyes read, when my reflexes
were answers to questions we all already knew.
Remember how it was then that you slid your hand
into me, a fork in the electric toaster of my body. Jesus,
where did all these sparks come from? Where was all
this heat? Remember what this mouth did last night?
And still, this morning I answer the phone like normal,
still I drink an hour’s worth of strong coffee. And now
I file. And now I send an email. And remember how
my lungs filled with all that everything? Remember
how my heart was an animal you released from its cage?
where everything shines as it disappears.
The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much
as the curve of the body as it turns away.
Just … a friend, a lover,
a good book, a place to go.
Someone to give purpose to.
To get a glimpse at meaning,
and see the beauty in all else as well.
The change of seasons,
the scent of the city, and
the right words.
A sudden smile. Tired bodies.
To die without pain. To heal
the soul without payment.
Just … one single dream, and it
does not have to come true.
The bliss of dreaming it.