dreaming the body
a key hangs on a peg on the wall;
I take it down, my hands sliding over
worn wood, words half scraped away,
phone numbers from summers years past.
try and find it, the dense silent whisper
comes to my ears. try to call it to you.
but calling is never that easy. the lock
is nonexsistent until I imagine it, the metal
fitting nothing but a door created for it.
i weigh the key in my hand, the scratched
and heavy steel, the gravity that tugs at it
and the earth it yearns for.
The hands that move me, the motives
I dance to, the lock the key fits,
the selves resplendent in happiness.
It is a river, this emotion; and all
in its path grow more beautiful
and more sane.
I raise my hand and summon the lock.
behind the door are other rivers,
other hills, other silver cities.
6/10/99