A finger buckled into a crease
in pages we let dry in the sun.
Mouths open in the rain,
now dripping dark roast, adult withdrawls.
I want to keep these margins safe for
scribbles of eyelids, closed and shadowed.
For assignments I give myself.

No drink until Sunday.
Saturday.
A quick start, microwave the heart.

I can't give you this old notebook,
just for something to write on.
These are serial numbers, now a lanscape for the
calories of every pea and macaroni I've eaten.
These are directions to the apartment
where mold didn't grow around the window.

I keep this to record the first storm
back east.
I toss my empty coffee cup
on the home and garden section.
It is like you've said.
This cough keeps me up at night, I am no better here.
Craving pumpkin seeds and those solitary mornings.

I will still protect the part of me,
a natural for flight.
With a notebook, bright orange but for my eyes
and my knowing
that I will never get that summer back.

I will record the soggy afternoons,
the caffeine that makes the one tree that has turned,
shake in a struggle to hold on
to the year that has happened in a dark ink.

In a loose grip, abrupt, and sweating.

11/04/2008

Posted on 11/04/2008
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