Seconds Before the Floorboards Fail
       

When I hear your wish, gates
unveil a dreamt poet

who walks up with an armful
of cut-off pockets. He is

your brother minus the tiny word
dividing his voice. Your sentence

has commas where shuteye should be &
the bed goes up in flames when

you wave your twig. I have seen
ears empty out on paper, sound

burrowed in the rough bark. I blame sleep
not the book in the pocket of my gown.

I was sure eyes touch. And you, asleep
beside my bones round the clock

wake to loosen fire
from its frame.

Copyright © 2010 Julie Doxsee All rights reserved
from Objects for a Fog Death
Black Ocean
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission