Quiet

---

Takes a second to awake
The light outside is fake
You try at once to shake the sheet
The hair will not be ruled
The feet will not be fooled
Communion in a bowl of gruel
Your own pustulence untamed
A noxiousness unnamed
It's never quite the same as now
Some living room appeal
Makes food for thought surreal
Somewhere, unknown, untucked, unsealed

Try to sit the legs are gone
Outstretched and over-yawned
On elbows blood is drawn
Almost
A movement on the steps
Enough cause to forget
Pajamas haven't got pockets
Sick — a shell without a seed
Phlegmatic sun, indeed
A rainstorm is a creed or font
The warning from above
The pedestal you shove
So eager you forgot to shrug

Halfway through is something like
The movement of a kite
Above and out of sight
You wish
The cocaine from the wall
Dry echo in the hall
Unlaughter from an imperson
Balled up

In drawn curtains, smug
Moonlighting sits, and
Nothing is lost
Nothing is lost

Stupefied and wandering
Unfit for muttering
The ears will beg for ringing now
The wicker ties upheave
And bamboo shoots believe
Ridiculous, this oily ennui
Up — still flat oscilloscope
No lather on the soap
The ending of the rope just past
Still staining, squish across
The dark as airy moss
Lie still and hope Sunday is soon
Turned off

© 1991 John Brocato