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When the Dark Heads of Sleep


When the Dark Heads of Sleep


When the dark heads of sleep finally open their red mouths.
When the flood waters crest.
When the tails of creatures are lost and regenerated
   and no one knows the difference.

When our unborn ball their hands into fists.
When fragile leaves of light break through the clouds—
   the connective tissues between land and sky unfolding.

When beds make themselves and hot touches cold
and hands reach out from between the shrubs
   and rivers become the tall bodies of women.

When God misinterprets his own messages and we wake again
   to our original selves.
When the dust feels encouraged and doorknobs
   pop up around us like poppies.
When we discover the latitude and longitude of the crosshairs.

When the walls finally organize
   and we look at ourselves and ask what  have I become?
When skyscrapers invert themselves and become chasms of lit windows
and the crops deliver themselves: corn
  gathering dust in the crib, swiss chard steamed or boiled
and served in all those rose-colored bowls,
   forever dropping from their own steam rising
from the dinner table.

When bay windows become something other
   than bay windows.
When satellites: sentinels, and the grouse that rises
   above its name.

When the bees return and the logic of swine.
When the blood turns.  When the blood turns.  When the blood


Blueline Review, Spring 2009

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