Monday, November 10, 2014

Labor


There is no light; only morning.
And so I sleep with all my song-churning
organs awake and plotting. They are
for me when all else in my body betrays;
they plan to live, and live hard, this
blind factory that loves you without
protest, even as I doubt the weather I 
ask for.

I scent disaster, charred aims and burst
hope, yet my gut keeps me alive by making
bargain after bargain. It doesn’t matter
what pain is applied to the skin, inside or
out; the vice in my bloodstream meaningless
in the din of work. Can’t you hear it crash
against your psyche in the middle of your most 
troubling dreams?

One day all this faithfulness will see its 
reward in the shape of itself as a winged creature 
no one would expect. And then, like some rare bird, 
it will wake me with a flurry of unspoken reasons 
and carry my trudging heart in its talons 
to the resting place where 
every invisible sheave
is stored.






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