Year of writing 111. 21/30

4/21/12

21/30

In those sad hours,
when time seems to
spin like rotary phones,
look up to the ceiling
and trace the cracks there
with your eyes. These are
not times to unravel,
not times for bluster and lurching.

Do you feel your hands?
They are attached to your body,
remember this.  Follow
the crack in the ceiling
to a corner cobweb.
Let your gaze linger there
awhile. They are not just
accumulations, they hold this
room up.  Fill your lungs to the
point of panic. Now relax,
feel the embrace of your chest,
the expansion inside has limits,
there are rules to this.  Trust them.

There is a window on the wall.
 It is large and contains no glass.
Open it anyway, it is your heart.
Outside is a menagerie.
The animals are not making a sound.
No matter, listen to their silence, they are your teeth.
You still own your tongue, you always have.
Tilt your face upward, feel the sun on your cheek.
Where it was wet, it is no more.

Brush the salt from your face
onto your palm.  Save this
for bland days when your teeth
lie sleeping. Save this for days
when the sun hides ashamed.
Save this for days when you have
security-barred your heart, and
your lungs can't be contained
in your chest.  Save this for days
when your hands float carelessly away.

Remember the cobwebs.
Remember the salt.
Remember your eyes.
Remember your hands.