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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