Monday, November 2, 2009

surrealism. freewrite.

I cannot sleep.
These are not my dreams,
but I see them,
like orphans:
all the things we’ll never be.
The wedding bells and the coffee pot
and laughter as resident;
this is where I want to be buried.
In the knowledge that you, too,
dream of the lost,
that we grieve together,
like the separation that we are.
I have never prayed harder for winter.
If I see a rose
there will be a child’s eye in it
and I can’t bear to see you.
The sun,
she likes to mock me,
or, like Christ,
is not fond of work like listening
she’s still shining,
the world is still turning,
we are stopped,
so suddenly,
like light bulbs
about to accept peace
or the blankets
that wanted to coat us like warm snow

I hope you forget me someday.
I hope I cannot remember
what our future would have smiled like:
coloring book perfume,
teapot symphony,
the home we will never find.

1 comment:

Mark Luther Anderson said...

danielle, I love you so much.