Said a name and felt vibrations.
To reminisce on a bassinet. I swear I heard us.
Mind furniture, such violent tsunamis.
Aside a bureau, inside an armoire, things seem nonchalant.
I never asked concerning chords, religiosity, nor chi.
I sat on furry carpet. I just laid there.
I saw a highchair. A little lad.
Years later: sullen hopes, softer flesh, rooms filled by borrowed smoke.
(You spoke with thunder. You retreated with kindness.)
I see a shadow: a new shoji screen.
A bad bladder, a spotted liver: he passed a horrible death.
And in a whisper, we say, “Love.”
Granny fell asleep in a rocking chair—
I discovered eczema.
I see you moving. I see motion. I wonder of that union.
It’s so powerful, I wonder if you’re recruiting.
I remember a bean bag chair. I see big faces, rosy cheeks, vocal incantations.
You never say much, you just light-up—
such a hurricane;
back to patio séances.
