Inside the body
of sleep, each thinking
we are alone & surrounded
by wholly private visions,
failing to recognize
the animal whose footfalls
we hear in place of our own,
touching what we take
for a wall where there are only
other fingers, other skins,
& waking to the smell of heat
on a cool morning in early
summer: I’ve turned into
a tourist in my own life.
I carry a camera from room
to room, alert for any irruption
of significance into the hum-
drumming of home appliances.
Someday, even my breathing
will seem worthy of note.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Oh yes!
Tall Girl is right.
I carry a camera from room
to room, alert for any irruption
of significance into the hum-
drumming of home appliances.
Someday, even my breathing
will seem worthy of note.
Now, I would like to see that photograph of breath, the day it seems worthy of note! To be Bontaesque-at-its-best, it would have to be what I am not expecting, not caught in the cold air or fogging the mirror.
Not even containing an upside-down insect.
What?
Sounds like you need a trip somewhere Dave.
Looks like I’m trading the vacation pics I was expecting here for good poetry. Poetry is the best vacation, anyway.
‘I’ve turned into a tourist
In my own life’.
Hmm, worryingly near the mark…
A fine poem, Dave. I particularly like ‘alert for any irruption
of significance into the hum-
drumming of home appliances’. From adjective into verb.
Great poem! I wonder if your inner self is substituting the trip around your rooms for that real trip you decided against. ‘Irruption’ is a neat new word to me.
What everyone else said so far…. The image of a noteworthy breath was irrupting!
Thanks for commenting, y’all. I don’t know how obvious the irony was here. But the fact is, at the moment, I am very disconnected, having lost my internet access!