Dream Tectonics

The blaring sun becomes memory
on our skins, there is no horizon line
between sea and sky. How incredibly
fortunate we are to know the silence
of Zen in these hammocks.
You lean towards me, skim my chest
with a clasp of your hair until I fall asleep,
and here is where the whole
god-dammed thing changes.

I wake up in a strange room to the sound
of public radio, someone has brewed
coffee instead of tea, there are math books
stacked on a nightstand next to the window.
Outside, the streets demand their morning
fix of cars and shoes. A crowd at the
bus stop is blurred by rain.

Years have passed. I still
don’t know where the universe broke.
The champagne toast we planned for later
did not happen, neither did the twilight
horseback ride. Perhaps sleeps got cross-tied,
or a worker on cloud nine misplaced a file.
Perhaps there was a sudden shift
in the velvet black of dream-tectonics.
For all I know, a man I’ve never met
woke up under your clasp of hair from a dream
that by all rights, should have been mine.

DQ 12/30/08

Paperweight

One of the items I cherish most
is a star shaped paperweight
made of brass and smeared with
that eternal moss which grows
on metal after enough years elapse.

Back when it shined like god's eyes
we lived in the apartment where
we kept the windows open
to save on the electric bill, and we used
the weight to hold down love notes on the desk.

I suppose it will outlive
most things I own: my books,
the car, my new home,
-even my own life-
due to its heavy simplicity.

Every now and then I lift it
to check if it weighs as much as I remember
and I look at the inscription you
engraved at the bottom of the metal star:
forever yours, your name, and date we met.

Then I confirm that for any
given volume, memories
are far heavier than brass.

DQ 12/26/08

Kneeling

Slowly they rose from their knees,
heads hung wounded, hands holding
the dead wood of the pew in front.

The heavy man leading the service
read every possible sin from a book
and pointed towards the congregation

directing god about the gilded dome
to seek and punish those that had fallen.
A wicker basket in the shape of a nest

made its way from hand to hand
multiplying itself in green
like fish and loaves of bread.

Later that evening as I walked
through the woods I saw god
kneeling over a small bird

that had fallen from its nest
and I asked him if he had seen me
leave the service before it ended.

He kissed the bird, placed it back
in the nest and said: No, I did not see you.
I’ve never been to church.

DQ 12/24/08

To a Painting

Between green swirls
of ocean where mermaids sleep
she glances towards me
-sunlit face turned in my direction-
with a stare I’ve dreamt of
old gray stones gathering
sun by the shore.
Even and deep
like footprints that have
made the earth quiver with
the weight of something
indestructible.
How foolish of me...
to think I could bear
stare at her in real life.

DQ 12/3/08