Art, Poetry, books, novels

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Touching the Past

I feel pain on my lips. The upper is not cracked or bleeding, the scar tissue is from the grief.

How long must I pull thorns from my fingers? Is there a measurement when I stop

missing you?

Did my father die yesterday or in the Devonian Period? In dreams, he is a young man foretelling me things.

I awaken. I write down a yellow stained notepad next to my bed. After little sleep in the morning I can’t read the language. The handwriting is poor from no glasses and clouded moonlight.

I started sleeping with the blinds wide open. This allows peeking reflections off the swimming pool or the surf. When I wake up at two and three and four I look over on your pillow and you are not there with your hands on your chest. I prefer my earlier magic trick of just going back to sleep and seeing you in my head wound.



Touching the Sky


Photograph: Touching the Sky

Caroline Gerardo ©copyright 2011

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