Branches scratching at the glass in my window
on the streets outside, the spaces outside
this space on the inside where the mad ones go.
The wind howls in squalling breaths across
each chimney stack, along all rain gutters full
of broken stars, bits of teeth spit back,
about the spilt milk, losses of ours at sea,
when I was out on the tarmac ocean
waving in and out of inner consciousness
in streams, it's paving the stones
and now nothing is concrete. It looked all bones
but if you listen carefully you're further gone
because the real crack is brain-deep.
Wind that can swing around, bring trees down,
it snatches you from sleep, it lifts latches
and goes flinging umber leaves savagely
to the ground. It comes alive where it attaches
between my clothing and skin, it comes alive
in the thin hairs on the back of my neck, they electrify.
I imagine what other spaces lie beyond the glass,
knowing that I once knew, hoping,
hoping for more than hope for absences of things
and for freedom, from my shadows
and the marionette strings. When I'm tying up
the loose ends before I go, the trees will be sighing
Goodbye, Pinocchio.
