Poetry

when i look out the window
 on a night like this
(wild clouds and starfish in dark pools)
when i look out from a darkened room
at the pale stretched-out shadows of the dead
their faces  elongated cross-sections of time
passing by in a confused semblance of scenery
and in the oracular voices of the dead
i hear the out-soundings of my own
washing over the silence of a night
repeating all the faces i’ve known
in a weaving of circles of circles of eyes
of reflections of some thing
i could never quite define
 
like my attraction
to the dark side of the moon
 
or a song your body  brings me
freshly gathered from the sea