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Poem

 The Small Hours

Ceilings can be mesmerizing 
From crop circles to popcorn
Ants on parade, elephants 
Brought to life, a picture show, 
Night light seeping across corners,
Cast over plaster and wood, 
Cool white light, computer or moon,
Seeping in from all sides 
To light the hazy stage 

Electric green ribbons zap
Flickering, above the bed, a laser show
Where elephants morph into mothers 
My mother, skimming leaves from our pool
Blurry and full of the sap of sleepiness
Sweaty sheets and trips to the beach 
Fevers, birthday parties, funerals 

4am burns in a volcano red
On the bed stand
Lying on my back 
And I left my body, reverted
Or regressed, to a younger one
That was lying on his back
On that cool crispy blue sleep sack
Next to the waterbed, frozen
By thoughts of atom bombs
As big as hot air balloons
Dropping out out of the sky 
Popping cities and cities of children
Like a bubble 

Snap! There
Snap! Not there 
And I consider my age
And I consider myself ageless 
Two bursts of light on each end 
Of a line, wire thin
5 am, 1995, fifteen, twenty, eighty 
One, three, five, seven, nine 
6 am, there’s still time 

Where have all the flowers gone? 
And other questions, heaps, 
Mountains of them, 
Where does God go after eternity? 

Comfort is a hot commodity 
The ceiling blasts off like a rocket
A dog yelps down the street
I feel my arms and fingers again 
The world rotates on a tilt
And all the people rush to find their footing
while I try
Try to cram galaxies into the keyboard
Next to the razor hot red numbers 
Counting rabbits backwards over the fence
That wavers and quivers like a Great Wall
With no end and no beginning
In circles and circles across the sky

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