Friday, February 10, 2006

13. "Chopsticks"

One rice grain with the chopsticks
is a question i can ask;

billions & billions of stars,
an answer i remember.

But i toss the lees of this night
into a fathomless void

where love is a wan candle
scarce casting its own outline

& our future lies unread.
Hands, Rosetta-key, are far,

looks remain in the mirror;
my words, my words there also.

If i had a Book of Dreams,
what would insomnia mean?

Everywhere two people stand,
something is made between them;

there's a highpitched whining sound
in the back of my car. What?

I am weary, & Christmas
creeps over my shirt collar.

--Ah, there's nothing wrong with me
sleeping with her, wouldn't fix.

That's what i tell myself
when i can't hold the chopsticks.


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