wake

This isn't poetry, it's detox. Mind will take one third of the blame for a night such as this, and body another third. And the third third I give to Carlos Fuentes, for words that burn to the core of the being and the doing...

"There's only one frontier we dare to cross at night...The frontier of our differences with others, of our battles with ourselves."

"If it is necessary, our atomized consciousness invents love, imagines it or feigns it, but does not live without it, since in the midst of infinite dispersion, love, even if as a pretext, gives us the measure of our loss."
(both from _The Old Gringo_)

Woke in quiet of storm's wake

sleeping in the bed that I unmade

facing a wall aslant at a 45

angle of light from an opaque sun

on unsettling side of sky

comes to land on twisted limbs

legs are on backwards, feet point to heaven

arms stretch blind, a guess at forward

heart still lying

under the desk where it rolled

in a struggle the night before

spasms once and starts to beat again

ears ring with perfect clarities whose

last words are caught just sneaking out the door

rise up and try to follow them

with eyes split into diamond facets like a dragonfly's

while muscles crystallized with memory of every pain

crack open and remember motion once again

scars sing with atmospheric violence still rebounding

back into cloudbank height from which it fell

through this flat white ceiling's good intentions

that don't protect from elemental shifts

the beauty is still out there

if I can just remember where the window is

or track a blind path to the door

and stumble into light's remaking