The Center of the World

At the center of the world there is a statue of a girl.

She is standing near a well with a bucket bare and dry.

I went and looked her in the eyes and she turned me into sand.

This clumsy form that I despise, it scattered easy in her hand.

And it came to rest upon a beach, with a million others there.

We sat and waited for the sea to stretch out

so that we could disappear into the endlessness of blue,

into the horror of the truth.

We are far less than we knew.

Yes, we are far less than we knew

but we knew what we could taste.

Girls found honey to drench our hands.

Men cut marble to mark our graves.

Saying that we will need something to remind us

of all the sweetness that has passed through us

(fresh sangria and lemon tea).

The priests dressed children for a choir

(white-robed small voices praise Him)

but found no joy in what was sung.

The funeral had begun in the middle of the day

when you drive home to your place from that job that makes you sleep

back to the thoughts that keep you awake long after

night has come to claim any light

that still remains in the corner of the frame that you put around her face.

Two pills just weren't' enough.

The alarm clock is going off but you are not waking up.

This isn't happening, happening, happening. It is.










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