All These Things Are Not Without Their Meanings
       

Within you a red box with a needle.
It lands and plays a song.
The songs shimmer like moonlit bones
full with defective, long stories.

A train rolls by the sea in Connecticut
but your needle hardens like a brick
in a bag in a box in the sea.

To feel without the object of desire
is to cluster around feeling.

If you dragged me to a green sofa
and reclined upon me on it, an image
in my leaden glass,
would I, like the shape
of a wing unfurl and fly
into you burning lists of addresses
and grateful for every syllable of your
rising skin? Would the night lengthen,
inside-out as my chest unlocks revealing
three lesser chests, as you arrive in a newly painted place,
light as an envelope, fallen in a black room?

My final letter is in the mailbox and I hear it thud
the bottom, like something you should not have overheard
your parents talking about.

Lesser chests:

I. of a child, foaming and constructed like a hallway
with its pink doors, holes and shushlings.

2. of the new day, the master of a whole world,
a bag full of walnuts, lemons, and licorice.

3. of now. When I wake,
you are there, in woolen vagaries and scarlet angels

Tweet

Copyright © 2016 Sean Singer All rights reserved
from Honey And Smoke
Eyewear Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission