LEAVING THE LABYRINTH

When I wake shrouded in warm mist though it is still velvet black night holding all the frozen stars, I do not recognize what we have become.

The field where I wept with the dog in my arms; the plateau where the planes graze their inherent splendor. Wild machines pumping their lighted, heavy arms.

The bones ache as if they are becoming hollow. As if it shall be winter forever.

When I finally stand up, the knees and neck attempt to be in synch again, on the same page where I wrote those disturbing sentences about how the sea found me tangled in wild animal screeches.

There is so much I wanted to tell that I couldn’t explain. When the words cut the flesh to find their pattern of bird flight, not chaotic, not frenetic, not messy, not listless, not sorry—

I turn to gaze into internal storm as my father told me a girl should do–bravely.

So I gather my velvet blankets that soak sweats of darkest night dreams that show the way out of the labyrinth. Mazes of streets, parking garages, parking lots, road blocks, cement barriers, cul-de-sacs and déjà vus—the rusted machines I somehow construed.

At the door of the planet HELLO HELLO. Here’s a broken song for the confused, old woman who talks to her husband in the cellar at his work bench. His ghost hovering over her while she sleeps.

Someone’s wife is dying, someone’s father is dying, someone’s wife has left after twenty years without a note, packing up the furniture and children forever.

Someone or something is stroking your hair–

Returning you to the wailing, shifting ice–that reminds: what we are.

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