Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Jet lag, Kensington

Stray London headlights
slant up
frame film noir shadows
on a darkened 4 a.m. ceiling.
In the next flat
someone speaks
a sink fills
and drains again
and the sink in my flat
in sudden loud empathy
the perfect bubble
of muffled quiet
that I imagine
to protect me
from the dull rushing hum
of this city
living through the night.
From the fenced park
across the street
a handful
of Kensington drunks
shouts briefly
and I turn over again
in the creaking bed
and wait wide eyed
for my slow deliberate soul
to catch up
to my trans Atlantic body.


Fingers said...

May I be honest?
Sometimes I really want to write a nice note here for a nice poem you've written. But I get a bit spellbound, your poems cover all (most) facets of what they (each one of them)are talking about.
May I write a collective note now for all your poems and say that they are wonderful. I look forward to reading a new one each day.
And, there are times when I just park myself here for ages. If you had one of those site meters that told you who was visiting your blog at the moment, you'd know...

Your poems are so inspiring.


Uh..Haven't You ever Quietly Read about Equine Siestas?

coyote said...

Thank you. I appreciate that greatly. I'm glad you find something in them. That's my hope when I post them.

As for those equines and their naps, don't you know that horses secretly run the world?