Nov 15, 2012

When I Cannot Sleep–Day Six–a Letter

Written by Justin Boening

Read by Seth Abramson

The wind is having its way with the house tonight,
with the windows.
It’s finally possible

to undress myself like a Corinthian.
I remove the crickets from my pillow,
place the clock,
face down, put my collar stays in a leather box.

It’s my turn to suffer. The stovepipe
gnaws into the room like an emperor
who’s lost his voice,

and you’re at it again,
doing laps in the ambulance
out on the frozen lake.

Everything seems like something you’d say to me
in a small town, under sitka,
leeward side of a sandbar,

to keep me breathing like a little beast,
skein of brant
breaking heavy,
some cut-loose kindling.

Neither of us has been perfect.
I carry a fistful of pebbles.
You threaten to swallow them down

when I’m not watching, lost in a squall
of chrysanthemums
and the weird. Truth happens too often.

Place the globe back in orbit–I was mistaken.
If you do not come closer,
we will not need our umbrage.

It is not snow that covers us,
nor spooks, nor wind, just as
this isn’t a shadow

(say stranger), or the carrying off of one animal for another.

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