Archive for June, 2008

of thunders

If I lean in to hear you

You talk

Louder

 

And my ears hurt

 

 

.

 

It is something

I am going to

Have

 

To get used to

 

 

.

 

There is the warmth of

Your fingers

Pressing

 

Against my lips

 

 

.

 

It might have been you

Leaning into me,

Listening,

 

But it is like the soft slap of your bath water dividing. 

 

autumn

Now autumn bare

Breast in bed

Waits.

 

She leafs with Keats, darling,

Drinking poems and

Waits.

 

Her roots are growing in puddles of ashleys.

 

 

 

No. 1

Mirror again moves,

To double

Over

 

In rooms entomb me.

© Toby E. Baldwin

In the Window of the Room

 

 

 

 

The flower stirring jar

and stem leaning

down

 

a silver glint, the

sunlight whittles

down

 

its folded petals,

slowly turning

in

 

to the water, that

is not moving

now,

 

and all around rain is

falling.

 

 

© Toby E. Baldwin

insecting

insecting

 

Its hinged body bent

a wing of blue

light,

 

then

 

dangled in the

air like a

bell

 

before it

fell

 

and was swallowed by the room. 

© Toby E. Baldwin

Undulanthades

    Undulanthades

                    

               

                 In waking hours of lost attention to pillows of fro

st and moon.  Light windows through to sheets smooth and up

set. A dream frog slapping its wet belly against the sudden sid

ewalk, and then the forest wakes in shimmering long oaks b

ending in wind moves and I don’t want to walk away from thi

s dream and wake up falling asleep in your car trying to find it

again.

 

 

           

                

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Toby E. Baldwin

What I Don’t Mean

What I Don’t Mean

 

 

That the moon is a stone on the floor.

That a moth is being eaten by motion and light.

That I am buried in dry, heavy sheets.

That rain is falling softly now.

That my father is dragging across the floor.

That his long arms catch me.

That he pulls me from the covers.

That even his hard chest time consumes.

That the walls are folding in.

That the curtains are blowing away.

That the rooms are filling up.

That the furniture is floating out the door.

That the books are fat and yellow with dust.

That the doors are swelling.

That the ceiling is all around.

That the floor is soft.

That cold blades of wind are coming in.

That the plants are crawling away.

That I am falling backwards into a black wood.

That it is pulling me into it.

That I want to run my fingers through its fields and trees.

That I want to pull my hand through its hills and streams.

 

 

© Toby E. Baldwin