power outage

spell a-m-b-u-l-a-n-c-e with me,

e-c-n-a-l-u-b-m-a if you see it straight on,

if you see through the dusty tower-piles of national geographics

stacked into a blue house at the end of the wood-lane:

 

where all the cars turn around –

or, in winter, get stuck trying –

where the circle part turned soul-studio

plays out its beautiful record.

 

(did i pay the bill?)

 

in subtle starts we become afraid of the very

things that make us happy, the too-cheery things

that make us smile — giddy, open-mouthed –

that make us forget mirrors, deadlines, grids, mortality.

 

(may you always free-smile holding pointed-paper-cone-cups.)

 

spell a-m-b-u-l-a-n-c-e with me;

do not think of the blood, the yellow-painted glass-paned door,

the chase at the top of the stairs, the forty-eight stitches –

the hundreds more to come that you know not yet.

 

like a jolt — the rooster lamp crows alive

with white-gold glow; in the hum — connection

chum – the books close; the radiant piano

reverts back to silent furniture.

 

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