I Had Dreamed of a Seaside Room With Portugese Rococo Couches and Long, Swaying Calico Curtains

I HAD DREAMED OF A SEASIDE ROOM
WITH PORTUGESE ROCOCO COUCHES
AND LONG, SWAYING CALICO CURTAINS.

Closing firmly the door behind me, I sat
Behind an ebony desk with tiny gold leaves
Climbing up its ebony legs to interview
A nest of stones in an azure, black rimmed bowl.
The just born stones wanted to be taught to fly.
These were the first words the stones spoke.
There was something of a scream in their words,
As if an echo from a birth cry.
The stones told me that they had checked
All the mirrors in my private room,
But bypassed the mirrors in the more
Public parts of this old, rented house.
I saw the stones had scribbled in their notebooks
Something about murmurs and mummies.
The stones never capitalized or used
Periods at the end of their sentence,
As if there were no beginnings and no endings.
I looked around the room, there were
Human eye lashes, human eye brows,
But no human eyes, or human faces.
I had in this employment office, interviewed
Many people wanting a job, but this
Was the first time I ever interviewed
Newly born stones who did not want
A job, but just wanted to fly.
When the stones asked me,
Could I teach them to fly,
Fire alarms went off in every bone,
Puffs of smoke came out my ears,
Ashes spurted from my mouth.


Duane Locke

Posted over on The Hold