On the Port Side of the Day  

1

When consciousness rubs its eyes,

events sit down at the table

and interrogate me.

I let them land and move

like fighter planes

on occupied territory.

I had forgotten them. Why

did they remember me?

Intrusive forget-me-nots—they snuggle

between the covers of a concealed

chapter. They bloom inside

me, only just visible.

2

When I look into the pupils of a lie

I suddenly realize

that I am in its fist.

An unconsidered word

travels above me, a low cloud—

in the moment of forgetfulness, when

with no umbrella I step into a conversation,

wrath will pour over me.

Remorse envelops me,

and the lie, still fresh, hisses: even

if you escape from my house

you will zoom down from a vertiginous

deception onto the floor of truth.

Who is going to believe that you

are not a permanent guest of mine?

3

As bravery was running away

up the ladder of the left ribs,

on the way it ran its hands over its pockets,

looking for small change in words, enough

for a career somewhere else. Maybe

there is space between the second

and third cloud, which are travelling

hand in hand towards the horizon.

Under the supervision of the atmosphere it

might lightly change its shape into a mushroom,

from mushroom to sheep, from sheep to dragon,

then into a tornado that would carry me off

elsewhere, only the ladder would remain,

leaning against the air.