Undoing

*image found HERE

Undoing

Being at peace is consuming;
you hoist the tide
three circles wide
around your waistline,
transmute the echos to stardust
and the swaying it goes
from the corner store
to the deli
to no praying by the bedside;
the trees – not clocks but patrons,
the morning is nothing but breakfast;
each dream a softly broken
turntable of sleep.
Perhaps, along the way,
you forget to weep
and your hands learn the reflex
of climbing the string;
towards the rooftops
and in a pleasant sigh
when one is way up high
and can join in
the housewives that sing
to the birds before the sun is even awake;
perhaps
to take a bite from each of platters
on the underworlds table
and have not a quiver,
not entice a single shake
and whistle away a mid-noon at the dog-park,
to make it, bake it, break it
like some holy bread,
perhaps
Equally alive.
perhaps
Equally dead,
consuming, like
biting into the prairie that lets out
from another’s soul,
like sharing the cold with fire
and how perhaps desire
then
is wanting a new pair of shoes;
I find it hard to describe it to you
for I am not at peace.

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~ by Oloriel on September 9, 2019.