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Tuesday, March 10, 2015

2:00 AM


2:00 AM

No dogs bark at this hour,
Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,
Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.

I hear a motorcycle roar along a distant road,
Harsher than the sound of sawing wood.

Then silence thickens like concrete putty sealing
Joints and crevices of a room
Gradually deafening to the slightest vibration.

The world is asleep, I am awake.
Passing time heaves, a resting animal.

Now is the moment to descend into stillness
Deep as darkness enfolding underground rivers,
Delicate as a tissue broken by a cough.

I am solitary as a metal tool
Seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.

Before the smallest beginning of a noise like a flint flake
Tears into the fabric of the night, I will take long draughts, cupping my hands
Descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.

Originally published in This Dark Matter (January 30, 2015)



Antique wall clock

1 comment:

  1. Longer version of this poem:

    2:00 AM

    No dogs bark at this hour,
    Desolate, an abandoned field burnt by the sun,
    Dry shaving curls on a workshop floor long unswept.

    Harsher than sawing wood, a motorcycle
    Rips along a distant road, popping
    Explosions in small packets sputtering
    Bits of shrapnel, broken teeth,

    Busted rivets, chopped up brittle, pits, tracers, short-lived sparks.
    Slowly silence thickens, concrete putty sealing joints and crevices
    Of a room deafening to the slightest vibration,
    Hardening gradually, spiral candy.

    The world is asleep, I am awake.
    Passing time heaves, a resting animal.
    Dimly, a behemoth of swarming thoughts like fireflies drifts past.
    I wait steadfastly, a metal tool seeking the warm grasp of a skillful hand.

    Now is the moment to enter into stillness
    Deep as cloisters enfolding underground rivers,
    Delicate as a tissue by the slightest cough perforated.

    Before the smallest particle of noise tears like flint into gossamer darkness,
    I will take long draughts, cupping my hands descending as birds into the springs of tranquility.

    Gonzalinho

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