1. |
A Bed for a Ghost
09:14
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2. |
Walls Worlds
09:54
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4. |
Fleeting Forms of Smoke
10:25
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This is not about being or not.
It’s and. And, and and.
As the morning stirs my mind
to wake, bit by bit, my fingers
and other unfathomable feelers
shape the world again. I remake
my place in space. And then is when,
I notice night’s ghosts are rattling
at the bed-springs of my body.
They know it is time for them to go.
They twist and roil and rise at dawn’s
ripping sheet. Like a million birds
of murder, fear and song, night’s
wild urges scavenge final dregs
from my dreams and make speedy
exits from my world of sleep.
Where they go—or towards whom—
I do not care. There, then,
there is a pause of calm.
Gradually, dayhours’ haunters
appear upon the horizons of my eyes.
They arrive and occupy the silence
of my briefly emptied body.
They sniff at spots still pungent of
their night-shift cohorts. They lay
down and curl into tight wads
of snoring smoke. Day’s ghosts
commence their fitful slumber,
filling my waking thoughts
with all manner of mutter.
Fleeting forms fully figured
and fragmented. Impressions
as fruitful as fires. Ghosts never
really rest. That is perhaps the test
their purpose-bound curses impose.
Instead, they fill my body’s mind
with ceaseless brevities, noise
born of their thirsty dreaming.
They keep the world within me
churning of their urging churn.
by Jerry Gordon
1.28.2022
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