To begin before things end,
to look up and let loose
trail upon years now
and rehear shivaree
of those days I have safely bracketted into notoriety.
There was plenty in my mind and in your voice today.
I remember I had told you things take time for the centre to hold
and to choose between Yeats and Eliot on a flimsy day like this.
So I read across pages right after your call and wondered, "was it you that I had sliced from it..."
that you, the one I sang with at odd dawns, the one I had partaken of in corners I still dont see light into;
save the dank albums that still clog my last cell.
There were so many shades in those clingy notes I had stamped upon
and looked lost at coffee shops right between slow jigs.
Music, mind; music against my mind.
The ones I have with me today are the only ones with the quick beats, they tune
just like the way my pulses throbbed tonight.
It's to Neruda's toast again and my speakers aren't on.
There can't be time to think or to feel, to know to space out of situations or to write through my vein, again today.
Even when there's poetry in my soul and ink on my hands.
My pages don't sleep back as letters look straight to be born.