Rooms Where Writers Sleep
This is a dream about road conditions, this is a dream of
the library. Other people love cowboys, love liberals, love
men who say “I want you to feel safe with me.”
The next morning in the dream, she was wearing
a bathing suit the color of goldfish, saying “He wouldn’t
want to hear something like this”, heading into the basement.
Someone else was there. I can see you leaning back
in your chair, black and white postcards in hand.
If the Denver Art Museum is so upside-down, why
isn’t it closed on Saturdays, open on Mondays?
I wanted bewildering Modern Art, I wanted the way
the mind string words together, writes the poetry for me
like it should in an industrialized nation. Out comes a pun
and we love it for the automated nature of it’s creation.
I love to linger and confess. We spend time together,
someone loves the word “swarm”, someone loves
shimmering, someone loves Sunday, someone loves
the terms of taxidermy. When we go home, we take with us
the overstuffed bodies of the poems we’ve hollowed out
and filled again with what we all love.