First he wants to cut my hair and I demur
but he insists and gets it done and it is just
perfect, something I’d never have come up with
on my own, angular, askew, that derelict
kind of fucked-up pretty that’s always drawn me,
drawn him too, I guess,
and then he’s gone. Rest of the dream
he’s latent, possibility, maybe
sweating out a nightstand sickness somewhere,
or stripped out, caught breaking on a stage, or touching
his girl’s face, confused by love, mistrusting
grace. I’m in another place called Lake Shore
something, empty rooms, dark wood scratched-up
floors, and so damned glad to be alone.
Outside there’s water, stretch of blue,
stretch of black and I have to see how deep
and then I seem to sleep and someone’s
walking through my rooms and I can’t get my eyes
to open can’t get up to see another
dream and I knew the smell of late-day spring
the wetness of the place sweet smoke
from up the street a vision of the voice of dread
fragile as a star’s mind and he speaks of human blues
and being stultified and lets up on the string
before it breaks he hates me hates it all
I say don’t talk like that remember what the miracle was about
you will know it when you’re safe a spree
for all time he’s gone again nothing
but a passer-by with song, guitar and gun
imagined and mercurial blue eyes.
Photo By: Look Into My Eyes
Love it, Nancy. Had me there dreaming with you. Loved especially the first stanza.