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March |
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a poem by James Babbs
Down But Not Out
I've fallen through the cracks
where I have to look up
if I want to see the light
but it's warm here
and most days are dry
and softness covers
everything
the gentle dust of time
at night when I'm drunk
I brush my fingers over the walls
and think about skin
memories of your body
sweetness lingering
the bitter aftertaste
when I fall asleep
I dream of trees
the wind blowing
limbs bending
the sounds they make
scraping against the house
where I have to look up
if I want to see the light
but it's warm here
and most days are dry
and softness covers
everything
the gentle dust of time
at night when I'm drunk
I brush my fingers over the walls
and think about skin
memories of your body
sweetness lingering
the bitter aftertaste
when I fall asleep
I dream of trees
the wind blowing
limbs bending
the sounds they make
scraping against the house