Waking life

Each night in the new house I farewell former lives

through broken sleep dreams.

 

Spot a high school crush, now mid-forties

soft about the jaw, the soft hue of his roots.

 

Old partners with mail they’d neglected to redirect

challenge me to a game in the penny arcade.

 

Night after night the past appears

asking if I’m sure, and I’m sure

 

I wake to my baby again and again

fall asleep to reply

 

I choose the life I wake to

I wake to this life and I choose it 

again and again and again.

The Great Weight of Metaphorical Lightness

Never get so attached to a poem you forget truth that lacks lyricism – Joanna Newsom, “En Gallop.”

12744005_1050761621613372_681022737855470830_nJust as I was trying to learn that not everything in life is a metaphor, we got a new bed.

Beds are so deeply symbolic and a new bed bought together is steeped in meaning. On a more practical level, it really has changed our lives. Perhaps that sounds hyperbolic, but lives are just made up of days and nights. It really has changed our days and nights.

Sometimes I think I’m living in The Great Poem of Life where everything stands for so much more and demands to be read twice, scrutinised, figured out figuratively. Sometimes I think that sounds like an excellent place to live.

The old mattress has been dragged to the shed out back and very quickly looked like something one should not be touching, let alone relying on for the restorative properties of a good night’s sleep.

It reminded me of how the light leaves a person’s eyes when you suddenly realise you don’t love them any more. But that’s not something that’s happened to me for a while, and far too much weight to give to an old mattress that already sags with such woe and the burden of having been such a burden.