yet arched, like a door. like we have
somewhere to go, and it has been
hard getting here. the chill is
sometimes blinding, and even
the circles of life begin to lose
their trustworthy rhythms. at some point,
everything you lose is too much to bear.
feral, we march onwards. wolfmonth,
it was called. wolflike, I feel, some
mornings in winter light and wind
outside the door. here is another
door. janus sits here, knowing
what happened and why, what
might go wrong, what joy
might look like, this time.
in my nightmares all the same
people come and go, catching
me in some dark corridor, a moment
of uncertainty or uncontrol, a recent
fear. in my happy dreams, I jump lightly
but am able to leap and stay in high air,
enjoying new motion. sometimes I solve
a mystery, or one step of it, deep in an
underground chamber I might never
access again. it is dangerous, the same
balconies as my fifth grade classroom,
cops outside, or teachers, but always
I reach the secret rooms, find hidden
doorways, a story behind a wall.
after the nightmares I wake and pine.
I miss a life that used to be mine. this one
is working well, it shines and lurches on,
but some mornings I hold my blanketed
arms and wish they were yours.
I keep trying to be accurate
about my pains and joys.
I sit like a fat cloud in this january night,
singing to the thinnest slice of moon.
I am not flying, but there is joy here, in this low air.