Mercy

Dear happiness, forgive me;
you are not what I make histories of,
never the word inside my words:

the bright seed on the tongue
of the parakeet, lime green and chatty.
We both know you are nonsense mostly,

contrary to belief quite flightless
on your trapeze. Here now, you could be
the red worm burning in its peach;

even as I sink my teeth the blush
is fading into memoir. So it is with any star
eaten by the plain speech of day.

And what could be more fortunate,
which is why I know so little about you,
why I cannot repeat what I loved

more than these losses taken to heart.
We grow large in memory and sleep,
fluffing the pillows of our bodies,

our broken teeth turning to money:
I dreamt of you on a bicycle in the rain.
The sky was cloudless and shiny,

and I too was burning, a windy planet
liquid at the core, palmed in rain.
Then the dream was empty,

and there was only the body brimming over
with darkness, and I woke, speechless,
mouthing the sweet dark air of the room.

Copyright © 2001 The University of Arkansas Press for Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from The Throats of Narcissus
The University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission