The Poetry Marathon

There are several of us

unruly children

climbing the stacks

toppling books onto the floor

constructing fortresses of fiction

and using paperbacks as weaponry

nearby a librarian mutters in disdain

There are other uses for those

Stalling out in fervent play

a faint humming catches my ear

between thumb and forefinger

and draws me near

a worn leatherbound tome

reels me in

crimson and burning

it calls me by name

I stretch a small hand to its binding

golden sparks jump through my arm

onto the cover

revealing gilded symbols

the room floods with light

its ancient wisdom unfurls

and I begin to remember

I see you as a butterfly

as a momentary blur of color

a good omen

resting momentarily

coy and stunning

among the silky primrose petals

set off by verdant green

drinking in the bouquet

before bowing and lilting away

I see you as a moth

with torn paper wings

full of ambition

to greet the moon at its fullest

dangling in a star-mottled night sky

and settling for the small reading lamp

in my apartment

ricocheting off the walls

and eating my shirts

I would give you all my flowers

take my lights

and do what you will with my sweaters

it’s summer

I won’t need them

I see you

I will scoop you gently into my hands

Walk outside with you

And wait 

brave thing

beautiful and scattered thing

do not get lost here

in hopeful confusion

dreamily searching

for sweetness

This morning

There is an unreasonable chill

Cut blooming fire roses

left on the ground

last night’s offering

On the longest day

The bar flies have flown away

to slumber off the revelry and

In a few hours

May a sigh will escape from their lips

In sweet recollection

For now

The sidewalks are for

Pairs of old men

Walking slowly

In neon orange and green safety vests

And a father sleepily sipping sweet caffeine

With one hand on a stroller

And me

Tracing my lover’s face

Softened by dreaming

We meet in many places

the musty woods beneath swaying mossy boughs

a paint-splattered studio apartment downtown

your neighbor’s house, perhaps

Chattering and excited like children

we greet each other

hugs with running starts

all beaming eyes and glinting, peevish smiles

There is a silence

then

we begin

to cast the circle

to draw a cloak

a space between the worlds

We honor what binds us to all things

and conspire with the air that swells to lift up

a song that is strange and true

to ignite the fire dancing in the sky

that warms the ocean of the waking dream

We retrieve the gifts that glitter on the twilight shore

And in so doing turn the wheel of time

That is all, really

I am the dreamer stirring in their sleep

And waking to a world devoid of rest

I am the things that I decide to keep

The tokens that I clutch against my breast

I am the thunder hiding in the clouds

The pouncing of a cat, intent to startle

I am the figure underneath the shroud

Giving way to silence that is mortal

I am the ocean roaring in the dark

I am the light of the eternal spark

I am the thing that is recycled

I am the lover of the cycle

Over the years, my words have gotten away from me. I have not seen nor heard from them. Not a note. Not a letter.

I leave the lights on for them. The nights are silent without the faint, persistent scratch of pen carving meaning into paper.

Here I will run after them with fire blooming at my heels.