9.25
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His dreams are dark, except
when they are too, too bright. Light
caves in, an avalanche of yellow,
white, blood-filtered red, the grey
of baked cloud wind. Dead concrete
reflects from up above, somehow sky
flipped, squint, for rock, day blue gone
elsewhere, somewhere, out of sight. Blue
hides from him, he hides from light.
His childhood church: but laced
with locker-room alleys, extra stairs,
circular towers from medieval games.
Still, though, the small room, there,
behind the lectern. Where children wait
to enter, singing. In his dream, though,
filled with late files, boxes, totem papers, notes
and scribbled lines. He is peppered with
a dream-laid need to search, to find...
what? What? Something buried in the pile.
The light breaks in. He runs. Clutches
a score; music sheets drip behind him,
rustling forests of reflection. He needs more
time. Runs short.
The garage is dark. Clean, easy, drab.
Seven stories of parking for working moms,
single uncles, dying dads who peel
the skin off one more day, squeal tires,
escape, as he makes his way around and up
to rooftop star-pecked cold clear night.
The music in his briefcase a light
weight. No great tome, no mound
of xerox compost to drag home. Just notes,
black freckles on a field of chaste, pure
snow. He lays down on the concrete,
rests his head on leather.
Back cold on stone, he knows
the weathermen said, "Hail." Doesn't care.
He waits for light to come, but
sings a short, soft prayer:
"There's no hiding place down there."
Cuddles up to asphalt, curls over on
the yellow line rubbed dim and gone
by daily tires. Tries to sleep before
the light finds him. Sings, falls,
"... hiding place. No hiding place."
The rock cries light, bleeds sun.
He wakes.
------
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I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.
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