“when all this driftwood on the heart’s sluggish
coiling current
piles up.”
–Tomas Transtormer
late night early morning
longing for sleep
waking from sleep
the room dark with thought
the slow swirl
drags the detritus along
and I think of you again
with shuffled step
down a darkened hall
I wander room to room
rattling knobs opening doors
without reason one believes
this is a metaphor
mistaken as a cliché
as too often as now it is
easier to say nothing
to allow the moment’s farce
to force its ripe secrets
past the slow creek’s shore
to what end but to find a way
(September 10, 2016)
subtext 