As If It Matters

The first time I cried,
there were no tears.
You spoke to me from a dream,
and told me to shave my beard.

My beard? My strength?

I woke up and went swimming in the lake,
cold and dark in late September,
Michaelmas.

Inside, a painting on the wall,
provenance unknown, ugly
but from a distance decent.

My hair wet, I watched the leaves outside
and waited for the rain.

The cat on the wide windowsill
turned her head as if to speak,
as if she sensed my mouth about to open,
and the forest quiet kept my self to a minimum.

This entry was posted on November 1, 2007 at 11:39 am and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.