In my dreams there’s a house on fire,
and though I try to translate the flames into syllables,
the hiss and pop aren’t recognized this side of sleep,
in my head there’s a bed of rivers, murmuring a language I don’t speak.
And though I try, I still can’t translate the flames into syllables.
The meaning of dogwood petals floating along
in my head, a bed of rivers, murmuring a language I don’t speak,
whispers, the click of heels in empty rooms. When I’m there I know
the meaning of dogwood petals floating along –
but now those places are phonographs engraved by a midnight shaman,
whispers, the click of heels in empty rooms. When I’m there I know
the lay of that tribal in between, where specters dance with tambourines.
But now those places are phonographs engraved by a midnight shaman,
the hiss and pop aren’t recognized this side of sleep.
The lay of that tribal in between, where specters dance with tambourines,
in my dreams, there’s a house on fire.
recurring-walkabout (click here to listen)
Check out Juliet’s translation prompt this week at read write poem. I also had in mind an image prompt you can find there as well.
Balanced On the Edge 