with red birds;
it is 4:30 in
the morning,
it is always
4:30 in the morning,
and I listen for
my friends:
the garbagemen
and the thieves,
and cats dreaming
red birds
and red birds dreaming
worms,
and worms dreaming
along the bones of
my love,
and I cannot sleep,
and soon morning will come,
the workers will rise,
and they will look for me
at the docks,
and they will say,
"he is drunk again,"
but I will be asleep,
finally,
among the bottles and
sunlight,
all darkness gone,
my arms spread like
a cross,
the red birds
flying,
flying,
roses opening in the smoke,
and
like something stabbed and
healing,
like
40 pages through a bad novel,
a smile upon
my idiot's face.
C. B.
