(Some Notes on) Waking from Afternoon Sleep on a Warm Day in January
A thought. A bell.
Birds in the bare courtyard.
I lay not sleeping, but in unclothed thought. This river
was many bright currents washing over each other. I knew
work was getting done underground.
Light is going
in the square
of mute blue that lids the courtyard.
Short clouds, still pink, absentminded.
The street must exist, because heard:
fire escapes, flags.
(I hear the things I shouldn’t hear.)
(I see the things I shouldn’t see.)
Room for thought shrinks
inside one who loves:
food elevator, tugging
fire from the kitchens up into the head,
a white profile
back into the stomach.
(In the town square, you speak loudly, play cards
with waitresses.) Moon’s head
stands in for you.
Pythagoras of absence.
someone draws thin circles around me.)
-Ana Boziecevic-Bowling (Eucalyptus)