Sunday, October 14, 2007

For Loretta

sleeping hands, your rooms are empty
or contain one fish one girl a chair

or a garden aching with green symmetry
their eyes are far into the horizon

or the floor there is never any
electricity but lots of perfect

clouds round, boyant
glowing pinkly underneath like

slowing opening mouths
like soft teeth at dawn

your walls are green or blue or pink
your children are lost

in thought or lost in time
your floors, neat, spacious

somewhere several soft lights are glowing
we never know where the children’s

hands blanch and pinken as if they are very
cold or very anemic we notice their cheeks

uneasily that glow means a fever
some odd and secret excitement

white peaches piled in the vegetable
aisle or spilling from vendors out into

the smoke smeared, gummy dark
sidewalk have that kind of iridescent

dangerous salmon shiver or blur
we imagine at night the soft half

moons of the children’s naked
fingernails glow steadily as if they

are lit within and some of the light
is leaking out as if, if they opened

their mouths, we would see other
pastels rooms empty as this one

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