Coming Back From Brooklyn

Every morning I wake
To an audience of brick.

The house is a crowded place,
As all bodies are.

And in such sleep
the dance is gone
hips no longer moved
By marionette or drum.

What smoke unlocks the roof latch,
Whose stairs lead out of here?

I tuck myself in to a lullaby of heating and cooling systems. The song depends on the season.

Away from sangria and the moon
I look for the 14D bus.
At this hour, lots of things can be found:

A red cap climbing a scaffold, two fat grey rats wrestling over a paper cup, vampires and their cigarettes.

I always cook for myself with garlic, the other ingredients change.

The things I am afraid of are easy,
human and animal faces that stay still on moving bodies.

The bed is broken at the bottom, thin wood bent and cracked.

I used to cry,
And still do often.


About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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