“We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.”
I woke clutching daisies, hair of some other world. There, I say, stay. Alive.
These are my words, dropping off, leaping off onto the carpet, scattering their language and cursing the nation.
How can I understand. Morning is slipping away.
Last night was a woman, barefoot in Grand Central, sliding her way to God.
The soft padding of her feet, past me.
Holding high heals, swinging notes, hips, dress-coat smiling at the lights.
all this and bells! In my ears, bells!
I want to kiss her feet. Now, it is morning.
Why remember the stitches in the night, before the 11:10 train, which I missed on purpose, why remember? On purpose, missed. Let go. Leave.
I do not want to leave my bed. I do not want to open my hands to you.
The daisies will not stay alive, I ask them to.
Things grow out to wither. If I write this down, I said nothing. The train is leaving.
Woman, take your shoes and run from here. I cannot kiss your feet. There are no daisies. The bells stop ringing.
Go on! I cannot get out of bed because of you. I cannot write but that I hate the day, and your smiling dress. Let go, miss the train.
Why give me a voice?
My words, they missed the train. To run away. I hate the day.
I cannot get out of bed. To tread on words. On the carpet. Your Bells.
I will wear images on my feet. The woman sliding to God. Barefoot. I will wear her. Like a dress-coat smiling to the lights. Imagine. Nothing for our feet to walk on, one day.
I woke clutching daisies, hair of some other world.
Remember, they said. You’re alive. Let go.